by Iain Gale
‘King George is a figurehead. Whatever Hitler might say, many of his people love their King. It’s equally obvious that the Führer loathes him. He’s 40, almost 41, and pretty fit. He trained with the Prussian army before the last war. His great grandmother was Queen Victoria and our own King calls him “cousin”. George and his father the King were exiled in 1917 and replaced by his brother Alexander and a republican government. But Alexander died, and by 1920 George and his old man were back by common vote. His father was deposed after being defeated by Turkey, and George was given the throne. Four years later he was out, and in 1932 settled in London at Brown’s Hotel. He divorced his wife in 1935 and the following year was back on the throne. There are no children. So. There you have it. There’s your charge, Peter.’
Lamb stared at him. He realised that this was a defining moment. His instinct was to say no and to suffer the consequences. He had doubted the integrity of the Greek campaign since the outset, and now this. This was politics. Hitler against Churchill. A spite match, with the King as pawn. The colonel watched him carefully. Gauged his unease.
‘Peter. Remember. When all this is over, when we’ve won the war, you’ll need people who can help. You’re a young man. Your whole future’s ahead of you. You’ll have done something good in the war, have already, but what will you do in the peace? I can help. I’m your guarantee of a future, Peter. You can still be someone when the lights go on again. Believe me, there will still be someone to fight, and I’ll be leading that crusade too. If that’s what you want then I’ll be right behind you. But only if you play along now. You know what the alternative means.’
Lamb thought for a moment. ‘All right. I’ll be your babysitter, sir. I’ll look after your King and I’ll do my best to get him out if the Jerries attack. Do you suppose they will?’
‘Yes, to be frank. But we don’t know for certain and we don’t know when. Good, I’m glad that’s settled. Now you had better go back and find your men before the Jerries get here. Pullen.’
The WO came through the door. ‘We’re pulling out of this dive. Escort Captain Lamb back to the town and let’s get ourselves off, shall we? Before Jerry walks in.’
Back in the square Lamb found the men milling around the tailgates of the trucks. Bennett stubbed out a cigarette. ‘Blimey, sir. You all right? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Yes, you’re not far wrong, Sarnt-Major. Come on, we need to get a move on. Get the civilians on first.’
The Hartleys, Comberwell and Papandreou and their retainers piled into the back of one of the trucks, and Lamb’s men followed suit. Looking at them again he wondered which of them had told the colonel of his presence and how.
Lamb opened the passenger door of the lead truck and climbed in. They started up and the little convoy began to clatter and jolt down the road through the city and out eastwards towards Rafina. Despite the streams of fugitives, it didn’t take them long.
Piraeus might well have been, as the Aussie sergeant had told him, ‘fucked up’, but as far as Lamb could see the little port of Rafina was certainly in a mess as well. The little harbour, normally more used to fishing boats, was now full of ships of all sorts, some of them half submerged, having been hit by the Luftwaffe. The water, usually clear blue, had turned a filthy black with the floating, charred wood from destroyed vessels, and everywhere, it seemed to Lamb, masts and funnels of ships poked through the oily scum of the surface. The cloying stench of oil and burnt wood was everywhere.
On shore most of the houses were in ruins, their rubble giving many of them the appearance of ancient monuments.
Valentine saw Lamb gazing at them. ‘I think I can guess your thoughts, sir.’
‘Really, Valentine, surprise me.’
‘You’re wondering whether this place will end up looking like the rest of ancient Greece. Whether it will sink back into antiquity where it lay for 2,000 years after the Peloponnesian wars, before we rediscovered it. That’s what war does, sir, isn’t it? Destroys civilisations.’
Lamb looked at him. ‘You’re right, actually. That was what I was thinking. But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it, Valentine? To stop this bloody war. To stop a German madman from destroying our own civilisation.’ He looked again at the shattered ships and houses. ‘Come on, let’s get going. Jerry can’t be far behind.’
A number of caiques, fragile-looking Greek fishing vessels with a sail and a small motor, were lying at anchor in the harbour. Most appeared to have been requisitioned by the army, and men and stores were being loaded aboard. One, though, no less ramshackle than the rest but marginally more seaworthy, caught Lamb’s eye. It bore the name Andromeda, which had been painted with some care by its owner on to a wooden sign on its bows along with a large all-seeing eye which gave it the appearance of a war galley. On its fore-deck he could see several khaki-clad figures tinkering with a deck-mounted Lewis gun – two British officers in shirt sleeves, a corporal and a handful of men. If that was the total on board then she would manage a few more bodies, he reckoned. Lamb walked over and stepped on to the deck. He walked over to the senior officer, a thin young captain with slicked-back dark hair. Lamb introduced himself.
‘Hello. Peter Lamb, North Kents. We’re trying to find a passage to Crete.’
The captain looked up from his work. ‘Toby Hallam, Queen’s Own Hussars, and this is Lieutenant Corrance, my 2/IC. We’ve twenty of our own men on board and a few Greek civvies, mostly women.’
Lamb noticed the lack of any offer of transport.
Hallam continued. ‘Most of this lot want to get to Alex. But it sounds like you’ve got the right idea. If we’ve got any chance at all with the bloody Luftwaffe up there on our tails, it’ll be to try for Crete. Some of our chaps are there already. They’ve stopped embarking men at Navplion now, and you know that Piraeus has had it.’
‘Yes. We didn’t really see any rearguard to speak of. Who’s holding the town? Is there a rearguard?’
‘First Rangers. At least that’s what I heard, and a squadron of the divisional cavalry, 4th Hussars, plus a few gunners and the Kiwis from the Hassani airfield. There’s a few stragglers too, mind. All the odds and sods. That’s all there is, though, between us and the Jerries.’
Lamb stared at him. ‘You’re probably right about Crete. We’d never make it to Alexandria alone. Not now, with the Luftwaffe in control of the skies.’
Hallam nodded. ‘Bloody Stukas. Did for seventeen of our light tanks three days ago. Not much bloody use, are we? Cavalry without any tanks? Bloody joke. God knows where the rest of my lot are.’ He paused, ‘Do you know how many ships we’ve lost in the past few days?’
‘No.’
‘Well,’ he hesitated ‘… nor do I, exactly, but I can tell you it’s one hell of a lot, and I for one don’t intend to join them. It’s Crete for me.’ He paused again and then added, by way of an afterthought, ‘Though I dare say that once the Jerries have Greece that’ll be next on their list. You can come along if you like. I should if I were you. I should think we’ll cram you in. According to the admiral down there the convoy sails at 3 a.m. So the last boat has to leave the beach by 2.15.’
‘That’s very good of you. Crete it is then. I’ll tell my men, shall I? You do have room for us?’
The captain looked at the lieutenant and shrugged, then turned back to Lamb. ‘Don’t see why not. How many have you got?’
‘About forty, including a few British civilians.’
‘That’s fine. We could do with some help on the guns. Dare say we’ll need it when the Jerries spot us in the middle of the Med.’
Lamb walked back to the trucks. ‘Everybody out. We’re going to Crete.’
Bennett smiled. ‘Crete, sir? I thought we were headed to Alex.’
‘Change of plan, Sarnt-Major. Only ship we can get is going to Crete. So that’s where we’re going.’
Comberwell was at his elbow. ‘Crete? I say, Lamb, that’s impossible. I mean, that’s just not on.’
&nbs
p; Lamb turned on him. ‘Sorry? Not on? Mr Comberwell, do I have to remind you that you’re damned lucky to be getting away at all? We are going to Crete. And if you want to come with us, then that’s where you’re going too.’
Comberwell smiled. ‘Yes. Of course, Captain. I’m so sorry. Didn’t mean to make a fuss. Just came out. I was so looking forward to going to Alex. Drinks at the Cecil and all that, you know?’
‘Yes. I know. All that.’
Lamb turned away. The beachmaster, a commander in the Royal Navy equipped with a megaphone, was barking orders to a group of New Zealand infantry on the quay, trying to get them to move more quickly on to the tug which would take them out to a waiting destroyer.
‘Come on, you men. Keep going there. Keep it going.’
Some of them called back. ‘All right, Popeye. Keep your ’at on.’
‘Where’s yer bloody parrot?’
Lamb smiled and called to his own men, directing them on to the Andromeda. ‘Get on the ship. Quick as you can, boys. Make it snappy. Sarnt-Major, make sure we don’t take on anyone else. The civilians and our own men, and that’s it. That’s all we have room for. And for God’s sake keep the noise down. If we make too much of a din you can be sure Jerry will get upset and send the Stukas back.’
It was only half a joke. They wanted to make sure they did not attract enemy attention sooner than was inevitable.
As the men filed aboard, Lamb saw that the ship anchored alongside the Andromeda was also filling up. On the beach below the harbour Lamb could see another party waiting its turn for the tug. Some of them were standing up to join the queue, which was moving with incredible slowness. Among them, a group of men, Australians by the look of them, seemed to be drunk. One man in particular was singing, some ribald ballad that was barely discernible but included a few recognisably filthy lyrics. The worst thing was that he was singing it at full volume. That and the fact that he was tone deaf.
As Lamb looked on he heard the harbourmaster again. ‘Someone shut that man up there. The Jerries are at the city gates. Keep it quiet, can’t you?’
A British officer wearing the single crown of a major walked down the gangplank that led to the tug. As Lamb watched, he went up to the group of Aussies and told them in measured tones to be quiet. The men laughed and the singer cranked up the volume and began again. The officer smiled and repeated his order. Most of the men shut up and looked resentful and Lamb wondered what else the officer had said, but the singer began his song again and now he was really belting it out, at the top of his voice. As Lamb looked on the officer took out his service revolver from the holster at his side and in a single, fluid motion, before anyone could stop him, put it against the singer’s head and pulled the trigger. The far side of the man’s head disintegrated in a spray of blood. There was a pause and then the body crumpled to the beach, the blood seeping into the sand. The officer muttered something, and before the others could do or say anything he was walking back up the gangplank on to the tug. The other drunks, recovering themselves, began to shout and scream at the man and rushed the gangplank, but the officer had turned to face them now and they could see that behind him stood a guard of half a dozen helmeted men, neat as new pins, their rifles levelled and ready to fire. The soldiers turned away and went to bury their dead friend.
Bennett shrugged. ‘Bloody shame, sir. Mind you, he had it coming. Don’t give much for that major’s chances, though, once they get away, sir.’
Lamb banished his natural revulsion at what he had just witnessed. ‘No, but it had to be done. The bloody noise was putting everyone at risk. Anyway, I don’t think he plans to take them.’
As they watched, the harbourmaster held up his hand to stop the line of downcast, shuffling men and the gangplank was raised and flung aboard the tug, which began to pull away from the harbour. The men turned around and walked slowly away from the quay as the harbourmaster began to look for the next vessel.
Back on the Andromeda, what remained of Lamb’s company was almost aboard now and Hallam was busy with his own men. The civilians too were moving on. He heard Comberwell call out to them. ‘All aboard the skylark!’
Lamb watched as Eadie and Wentworth directed their platoons.
They had both come on since Egypt. Greece had made officers of them and he wondered what the future now held, what Crete would bring. From his vantage point on the harbour quayside, the beachmaster had spotted another ship and was motioning the desultory queue of men forward once again. As he did so, another, smaller ship caught Lamb’s eye, a caique like their own, which was moored just beyond where the tug had been berthed.
It was slightly smaller than the Andromeda and the deck was crowded with people, sitting, standing and pressed against the sides. They seemed to be mostly civilian and among them were a number of British.
A naval officer on deck in white shirtsleeves and shorts was shouting orders to a crew who included several civilians in shirts and flannels, while an English woman in a smart, floral-printed frock and a slouch hat was attempting to herd four terrified children on to the tanker with the help of a Chinese amah. A greyhound was pacing the deck nervously, held by another servant.
On the fore-deck nearest to Lamb a young man in army uniform but without any clear insignia was trying to take charge of two others. ‘Come on there, Charles, try to untie her. Peter, get that gun into action, can you. Get it loaded. We might be bombed at any time.’
He watched as the man referred to as Peter tried to secure a Lewis gun to a mounting, aided by a private. Three times they attempted to fix it to the base plate but it was only on the fourth that they succeeded.
Standing on the deck of the Andromeda, Lamb noticed for the first time the heavy swell that was rocking the boat. He had never been a particularly good seaman and hoped that the crossing would not prove too nauseous. He imagined, though, that seasickness would be the least of their problems.
He shouted to Bennett. ‘Finish getting them on board, Sarnt-Major. Captain Hallam’s in charge now. It’s his ship. Report to him. Don’t stow your gear. Every man must keep his own to hand in case we have to abandon ship.’
Miranda Hartley walked up to him, swaying with the motion of the boat.
‘I say, it’s a little choppy, isn’t it? Still, we can’t have everything. So clever of you to help us, Captain. Don’t know what we’d have done. How long do you think it will take us to get to Crete?’
‘I’m afraid I have no idea, Mrs Hartley.’
‘Miranda, please.’
‘Captain Hallam might know. He’s in charge of the vessel. He’s over there.’ He pointed, hoping to deflect her attention.
‘Well, we’ll just have to sit it out and be jolly brave, shan’t we.’
The sun had gone now and the harbour was lit by the moon, giving an eerie light to the figures who went to and fro about their duties on the deck. Lamb looked at his watch. It was nearing 11 o’clock, so there were another four hours until they sailed. He wondered if they would have that long before the Germans broke through the city and whatever scant defences there were left. Out on the sea he could see the looming shape of a transport ship and several destroyers, waiting to take on more men. Lamb paced the deck and looked at his watch. The minute hand had moved on four places since he last looked. This he knew to be a pointless exercise. He found Bennett. ‘How are we, Sarnt-Major? All squared away?’
‘Good as, sir. Men are dog tired, sir. There’s some asleep already.’
‘The more that sleep, the better. Especially in these seas. You should get some shut-eye too.’
‘I will, sir. When the time comes.’
There was a huge explosion from behind them and they both turned and saw the silhouette of the port and the ancient city beyond lit up by a ghastly combination of moonlight and the flames from burning houses. The light fell too on the harbour and they caught sight of the staring, static figures of the men, hundreds of them, who had not as yet found sanctuary on a ship.
‘Poor bu
ggers,’ said Bennett. ‘Funny, innit. War, I mean, sir. How some get away and some don’t. I mean there’s got to be losers. Sometimes, though, it don’t half make you feel guilty. I mean, why me and not them?’
Lamb laughed. ‘Ask yourself that, Sarnt-Major, and you’ll end up going mad. And what’s more, you’ll go and get yourself killed.’
As they watched, the beachmaster barked again, and the long line of the damned and the passed-over followed the orders from the area commander and began to move to the low ridge on the southern edge of the beach. And there, in the shelter of the laurels, the myrtles and the olive trees, they took cover and looked to the dark horizon for the return of the ships.
Three hours and a mile and half out to sea later, Bennett stood with Lamb at the rail, looking back at the shrinking coast of the mainland of Attica. ‘Just like St Valéry, sir, ain’t it? An’ all in the nick of time again. You could hear them Jerry guns getting closer and closer. I can tell you, sir, more than once I thought we’d all be in the bag.’
Lamb nodded. ‘Me too, Sarnt-Major. We’ve been lucky so far. And yes, I do have a sense of déjà vu. The only worry is, and make no mistake, it is a real worry, that this time we’re not heading back to the safety of home. We’re bound for an island in the middle of the Med, and it’s my guess that very soon that place too is going to be very far from safe. And if you ask me, the sooner we get off that island and across to Alex, the better.’
4
He woke at dawn, as the sun’s rays touched the deck of the caique and he sensed their warmth as they crept their way slowly up his sleeping face. Lamb shook himself awake and moved his aching shoulders. He had slept on deck from choice, given the heavy swell and his poor record of seafaring, but his attempts to create a passable bunk by laying his battledress tunic and a blanket on the slimy wooden boards had had little effect. His body felt as though he had slept on rocks.
He had woken with a start at some point during the night and had felt utterly alone and strangely frightened. He was not immune to the feeling, of course. Felt it always before any action. Would have questioned any man who said he didn’t. But that was something you learnt to conquer. This fear was something else: a fear in the night, lonely and hopeless and cold on the darkened deck of their boat in the middle of the sea. To conquer it he had thought of home. Of Kent in summer and cricket, beer and racing through the lanes on his old motorbike. The fear had passed and he had slept then, praying for the dawn. And now he should have been glad of it, but he knew that while the night had felt more vulnerable the real danger came with the light.