by Iain Gale
He saw Bandouvas move off, and within a few hundred yards he and the partisans were hidden from the road in a gully on the north face of the hill. The big Cretan was loping up the hillside now, like a huge gazelle. There was nothing to do but follow.
‘He’s up there. There’s an old Turkish fort at Pirgos. That’s where he must be.’
They climbed from the main road up a steep slope, and looking back down Lamb could see the fight still raging on the slopes around Galatas in the north of the valley.
Pirgos was just a tiny hamlet, nothing more than a few dilapidated houses. The old fort stood slightly away from them on a rise in the ground. They approached it with caution. It was impossible to know if any paratroops had fallen up here. As they reached the foot of the high walls, Lamb heard a noise. A stone tumbled from the top of the battlements, and moments later was followed by a shout.
Waving the men on behind him, he ran, his gun held at the ready, into the ruins – and collided with another man. Their two bodies tumbled to the ground, and instinctively Lamb grabbed the man’s neck and twisted his head to get him in a grip. The man struggled, trying to speak, and Lamb heard an English word, a familiar accent. He relaxed his grip and at that second another figure appeared: a lieutenant in British uniform.
The newcomer yelled, ‘Stop, or I’ll shoot.’ Then he froze, seeing several submachine-guns and rifles levelled at him.
Lamb looked up and gently laid the gasping sentry down on the ground. He scrambled to his feet. ‘You’re British.’
The officer lowered his gun. ‘New Zealand, sir. Lieutenant Ryan.’
‘Lamb. North Kents.’
‘Thank God. I tried to get a message back to someone. Captain Hathaway.’
‘Well, he did a good job. Here we are. You have the King? How many are you?’
Ryan nodded, ‘There’s me, sir, and what’s left of my platoon. Twelve men. Then there’s the King, of course, Prince Peter, the Prime Minister and the two ladies.’
‘The Prince is here. Good.’
‘And then there are two other gentlemen from the Greek government, and the English party.’
‘English party?’
‘Yes, sir. They were at the villa when we got the King out. There’s Mr Hartley, the novelist, and his wife. And Mr Comberwell. Oh, and there’s a servant.’
Lamb rubbed at his chin thoughtfully and swore under his breath. ‘That’s quite a full house we have, Lieutenant.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Still, we’ll just have to get them all away, won’t we?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you take me to the King?’
‘He’s in the back of the fort, sir. There are a few rooms which still have their original doors. We thought it safer.’
‘Very good. Seen anything of the Jerries?’
‘There was a patrol that passed by the base of the hill a day ago, but they’ve shown no interest in the fort so far.’
‘Can’t be long, though. They’re moving damn fast.’
They walked through the courtyard of the old fort past the lieutenant’s platoon and reached a door under the ramparts on the far side.
‘His Majesty’s in here, sir.’
Ryan opened the door to reveal a dimly lit cell of a room which indeed might at one point have been just that. Inside, seated at a simple table, was a man in the uniform of a Greek general. He looked up as the door opened and stood to greet Lamb but did not extend his hand. King George was similar in looks to his cousin, tall and lean, with the same broad, high forehead, receding hairline and beak-like nose. He smiled. Lamb felt he should produce some sort of a bow and nodded.
‘Captain Lamb?’
‘Your Majesty.’
‘I had thought we might never see you. I was informed of your presence on the island some weeks ago.’
‘You were, Your Majesty?’
‘Please, Captain, it is Your Majesty only the first time. Sir will do quite well from now on.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry.’
‘Yes. I had a wire from London telling me that your Section D were sending out one of their best men to protect me. Of course I didn’t have your name until my cousin informed me.’
‘The Prince knew it was me?’
‘Oh yes. Quite a chance encounter, though, between the two of you. And very fortunate for Peter.’
Lamb was angry and confused. Had Colonel ‘R’ told the King he was in Section D? And if so, why? Why too had he been told so specifically not to alert the King to his presence? It occurred to him that perhaps there might be someone else on the island from whom the connection between him and the King had been kept. He also realised with a ghastly shock that here he was back again among the English party, one of whom he knew for certain must have been the agent who had disclosed his presence in Athens to the colonel and started all this business. Someone who had passed on information about the King’s whereabouts to the enemy. The thoughts jostled inside his head, creating a web of befuddlement.
The King spoke. ‘Well, you’re here now, Captain, which is the main thing, with your men. And I must say, although I mean no offence at all to Lieutenant Ryan, I do feel that I must be in safe hands. You have quite a reputation, Captain. I know all about you.’
He spotted Bandouvas and his men. They were standing in a huddle, dressed in similar attire to their leader, unshaven and armed to the teeth, with weapons ranging from an MG34 to a scimitar.
‘Are these the gendarmes I was told about? Tsouderos, is this your doing? Surely not?’
A soberly dressed man looking as much like a banker as you could without a tie approached from behind the King. ‘No, sir. I have never seen these men before. These are not the gendarmes.’
Lamb continued, ‘No, sir, they are not. Far from it. May I present Kapitan Manoli Bandouvas. He is from Krousonas. A great warrior. He has been fighting against the Germans with me. These are his men. And women.’
The King eyed them warily at first. Then nodded and smiled. ‘Wonderful. Wonderful. Welcome, Kapitan, and thank you. You have earned the gratitude of your King.’
Bandouvas shrugged.
Valentine muttered, ‘Thank God for that.’ Bennett hissed at him.
Bandouvas spoke. ‘The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty,’ and gave a short bow. Lamb hoped that the sarcasm, so evident to him in Bandouvas’ tone, was not so obvious to the King. Mr Tsouderos scowled, however.
Lamb went on, ‘Kapitan Bandouvas will be our guide through the mountains, sir. We’re going to head for Sfakia. We should be able to find a boat there, or hopefully the Royal Navy will be waiting to take you off, sir.’
The King nodded. ‘And how do you intend to take us there, Kapitan?’
Bandouvas scratched his stubble. ‘Well, Your Majesty, as I see it the simplest way, avoiding the Germanos, is to go from here to Canea, then to Suda and Vrises, taking the hill roads if we need to.’
Lamb interjected, ‘One of my sergeants got the gen from Kippenberger’s man. We have no reason to believe the enemy has taken the main road through Askifou yet.’
Bandouvas continued, ‘So that’s the way we’ll go. If we find them or they find us, we will have to leave the road and climb into the mountains. Then we drop down into the gorge of Imbros and we reach the coast. Will that suit you, sir?’
The King laughed. ‘I may not be as fit as I was, but I think I will manage it. When do we start?’
Lamb spoke. ‘As soon as we can, I would suggest, sir. The Germans are closing in up the Alikianos road and I’ve no doubt that they’ll try to take Canea soon.’
The King nodded. ‘Good. Tsouderos, is everyone ready?’
‘Yes, sir. All our party.’
‘And the English?’
‘I believe so. Lieutenant?’
Ryan nodded. ‘Yes, sir. They’re as ready as they’ll ever be.’
Lamb took charge. ‘Right then, let’s move out.’
As Lamb walked over to Eadie to explain the situation he f
elt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned and found himself looking at Miranda Hartley.
She looked very different from when he had last seen her at dinner on the day before the invasion. Her make-up was hardly visible and her skin seemed dirty and in places quite raw from exposure to a combination of sun and wind. The hair, so neatly kept, now hung loose and her dress had a few tears where it must have snagged against bushes. She looked utterly exhausted and her eyes bore the classic red-rimmed signs of fatigue. She spoke in a breathless rush of words and fidgeted throughout with her filthy hair. ‘Peter. Thank God. I knew you’d come to save us. I kept telling Julian. Captain Lamb will come, I said. I was so sure of it. Thank God. He was certain we’d be killed or captured by the Germans and I had horrid thoughts of what they might do to me. One hears such dreadful things. And I think between you and me Julian would kill himself if he was forced to spend any time in captivity.’
Lamb stopped her. ‘You’re not safe yet, I’m afraid.’
‘No. But we will be. I’m sure that we will be now. Now you’re here. Dear Captain Lamb.’ She leant up and pulled him down to her quickly, kissing him, not on the cheek this time but hard on the lips.
Lamb recoiled and managed to detach her arm from where it was around his neck. ‘Please.’
But it was too late. Valentine caught his eye.
Lamb shook his head. ‘Where’s your husband? And Comberwell?’
She tried to look natural, straightened her dress. ‘Julian’s over there, with Freddie. We’re all a bit shaken up, I’m afraid. They’ve done their best, though. To look after me. But now you’re here, Peter. Thank God.’
Lamb ignored her and walked over to the two men. Hartley was struggling with a large pack, trying to hoist it on to Comberwell’s back. Lamb took it from him. ‘Here, let me do that. There, is that better?’
Comberwell let the pack settle on his broad shoulders and beamed at Lamb. ‘Fine. Never better. I say, what a spot of luck your turning up here. We’d almost given up hope.’
Hartley spoke in a rush as he hoisted a smaller rucksack over his own shoulder. ‘We were with the King and Prince Peter at their villa – well, of course you know the place – when the Germans came. We saw them land on the road between Alikianou and Canea. It was very exciting and actually rather terrifying, there being so many of them. But the New Zealanders just shot them out of the sky. Most of them, that is. But then Blount from the legation turned up and took the King and the rest of us off to Alikianou. Well, that was no use because pretty soon the place was swarming with Germans. So we left and pitched up here. Of course Mr Papandreou had already gone off with his friends, ages ago. I heard they were trying to get to Alex. There’s just Julia and me and Comberwell here with the King and Prince Peter. And the others, of course.’
Lamb did a quick head count. There were his own men, twenty of them now, plus himself, Ryan’s platoon of Kiwis, numbering eleven, the King, Prince Peter, Tsouderos and his wife, the Hartleys, Comberwell and the two servants. That made a total of forty all told, including two women and one, perhaps two, men who might not make it across any mountains they had to climb. It was not the ideal party for an escape on foot through hazardous country pursued by the enemy. But it would have to do.
They moved out of the fort and down the hillside towards the east, Lamb and Bandouvas leading the way with their men, the King and Prince Peter directly behind them, followed by Tsouderos, then the English and finally Lieutenant Ryan’s men bringing up the rear.
The sound of battle was all around them. To their rear he could hear the thump of artillery, but there was no small-arms fire close by, which was a relief at least. It implied that they were within their own lines, although with this new airborne enemy you could not know for sure.
It worried him that they had not encountered any sign of the 2nd Greeks, and as they emerged into the countryside north of Perivolia Bandouvas suddenly stopped. ‘Listen.’ Then, ‘Look.’ He pointed north, in the direction of Canea. They all stood on the hillside, transfixed. It looked as if a huge black cloud was over the town. Lamb counted the planes as they grew closer. Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty. At fifty he gave up.
The Stukas came screaming in first, as they always did. They hovered over the ancient port like a swarm of angry wasps and then one by one descended, hurtling towards the domes and spires, sirens wailing, bombs dropping, before they pulled steeply up. Explosions rocked the coastline. Then, as they watched, a great cloud of heavy bombers came into view from the west: Dorniers, Ju 88s and above them the smaller shapes of fighters, Me 109s. They throbbed across the blue afternoon sky, calmly and deliberately jettisoning their sticks of high explosive directly on to the town. More explosions followed, bigger now, so heavy that they shook the ground of the grassy slope on which they stood. Lamb heard Miranda Hartley whimper behind him and mutter something, and Bandouvas’ men began to curse. Then to his astonishment and horror another wave of heavy bombers came in. The fighters had peeled off now and dived down on the town, strafing its streets with machine-gun fire from their wings. He saw some of them head towards the nearby woods on the east side of the town, intent on machine-gunning whoever might have been trying to seek refuge in them. Birds rose from the shattered tree-line, flying off in confusion in every direction. The bombers were coming in at five-minute intervals, and still their party did not move. The bombs fell on Canea and by the time of the third wave their blasts had created a huge dust cloud, which rose from the town and filled the sky above. The centre of the town was blazing now, and they could see from their vantage point above the vineyards the black specks that were people streaming from the burning houses into the countryside beyond, heading anywhere to escape the bombs. Again and again the black planes came in. The party stood and watched, oblivious for the moment to danger, bewitched by the awful sight unfolding before them. Lamb felt physically sick. He found Anna standing beside him. For the first time since they had been reunited she placed her hand on his arm, and grasped it tight. She turned to him. ‘Why, Peter? Why are they doing this? What have the people done? Why …’ She shook her head and bent it away from him to hide the tears.
Lamb knew why. Back in Athens, or even in Berlin, he supposed, someone had given the order that Canea should be destroyed. And with good reason. It would terrify the civilians. It would lower the morale of the remaining Allied soldiers, and it would destroy the communications systems and curtail any further use of the town as a centre of operations. That was why. That and the fact that the Nazis planned to show the Cretans that resistance was useless, that it would not be tolerated. But how could he explain that to Anna? Even Anna, the fighter, would not understand the bland military logic which meant that hundreds of innocent men, women and children would die, were dying as they watched, and that others would be driven from the homes they had loved, the only homes they had ever known. It was the end of the world. He looked around and saw the King shake his head in despair. Several of Bandouvas’ men were in tears.
As yet another flight came in Lamb came to his senses and turned to Bandouvas. ‘Let’s move. There’s nothing we can do to help them. We can make good use of the noise and the distraction.’
The Greek nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. We had best not go much nearer to Canea. We’ll take the road through Mournies.’ Motioning them on, he led the way down the hillside.
From the vineyard-covered slopes they emerged on to a road and took the way that led east, skirting the southern outskirts of Canea. The ground beneath their feet shook with every explosion and Lamb could sense the fear among the group.
A lone fighter screamed in over their heads. Bennett shouted, ‘Take cover. Get down.’ They threw themselves away from the road and huddled at the side as the plane opened up. One of Bandouvas’ men was not quite fast enough and tripped, and falling in the road lay for a moment unable to avoid the bullets which ripped through him in a bloody line, from groin to head. The fighter carried on over their heads and swept round to the left into
another diving attack across the town. Lamb got to his feet and the others followed suit, leaving the dead man in the road. Quickly they set off again towards Mournies. To their left Canea was blazing more fiercely now, red and yellow flames twisting upwards from every quarter. They could hear the crackle of the fires and the explosions of the dying town, and feel the searing heat.
Still on the dust road, they rounded a bend and found themselves confronted by an Allied defensive position with soldiers entrenched on either side of the track, which had been barricaded with wire and two lorries. The officer on sentry hailed them and after a brief exchange they passed through the barricade and very soon found themselves on the outskirts of the town of Mournies, directly to the south of the port. The place was a mess of vehicles, serviceable and abandoned, and everywhere there were Allied troops. They stood about in units and sections, in various states of order. They leant listlessly against walls, singly and in groups. Many were wounded, some badly. All, thought Lamb, made Miranda Hartley’s fatigue look trivial in comparison. And through them all wandered the officers attempting to retain some semblance of order.
Lamb found one of them, an Australian gunner captain, and asked, ‘What’s going on?’
The gunner shook his head. ‘Where have you been, mate? The Jerries have taken Galatas. They’re advancing here double-quick. We’ve been pulled back. No one’s sure where we’re going to stand and fight. There’s not many officers left. This lot yours?’ He pointed to the party.
‘Yes. We’ve got to get to Suda. What’s the quickest way through?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go anywhere near Canea. It’s bloody chaos. Poor buggers. We’ve had loads of them through here. Bloody butcher’s shop. Field ambulance has gone in. It’s just carnage. I’d carry on along here if I were you. Good as any.’