Читать книгу Jackals’ Revenge - Iain Gale, Iain Gale - Страница 7

Athens was in chaos. The streets and boulevards, which only a week ago had seen the well-heeled drinking cocktails at the hotel bars and cafés filled with the locals, were now thronged with a quite different type of visitor. Refugees had of course been arriving in the city for more than a year, from Smyrna, Rumania, Russia, even Poland. But now the place seemed to Lamb to have become the hub of the world, brimming over with every nationality, and there was no mistaking the mood of the newcomers. The place stank of fear. The local people, though, seemed strangely sanguine.

Driving more slowly now into the ancient city, the company were greeted by several Greek civilians with a thumbs-up sign. It seemed bizarre to Lamb and singularly inappropriate.

Valentine, who, as he spoke Greek of a sort had transferred to the lead vehicle, whispered to him. ‘Sir, they think it’s the way we always greet each other.’

Lamb suspected, though, from their smiling faces that they might be some of the Greek fascists about whom they had been told. The streets were daubed with anti-Italian slogans but he wondered whether these men hadn’t come out from hiding in the expectation that soon their friends the Germans would be among them.

Most of the Greeks, however, he knew to be a proud people, and President Metaxas himself had refused the ultimatum to submit to Italian occupation. Unanimously Greece had united against the Axis when it had seemed that only Britain stood against Hitler and Mussolini. And now, thought Lamb, this is what they get for all that faith and defiance. We were put in here as a political move, and now, when they need us most, we’re leaving them, abandoning them to their fate.

The little convoy made slow progress, hampered by the press of civilians as they smiled and waved. A pretty, dark-haired girl with brown eyes stepped up to the carrier and planted a kiss on Bennett’s cheek. He shied away as the others laughed. Mays joked, ‘Oi. Careful, miss. He’s a married man.’

Funny, thought Lamb, how it feels as if we’re being welcomed as liberators, when they know all too well that we’re about to abandon them. What sort of people could they be to have such strength of spirit?

While he and every one of his men knew that time was of the essence, they were glad at least that there was no apparent present danger on the rooftops and in the streets of the ancient capital. The danger from the skies, of course, was ever-present.

Lamb was not sure quite where he was aiming for, but it had occurred to him that, with so many Allied soldiers trying to find senior officers, the British Legation might be a good alternative starting point for discovering a means of escape. He clutched his tattered and spineless copy of Baedecker’s Greece and thanked God he had brought it with him.

The Legation, he knew, was in the Hotel Grande Bretagne, and according to the book that was in Constitution Square. Turning left, they found themselves beside the terrace of a large building, Italian in style and baked by two centuries of sun. On the terrace in front, among the carefully manicured gardens, some steamer chairs lay broken and surrounded by empty wine bottles. The army’s been here, he thought. He sniffed, and Valentine saw him do it. ‘It’s gum, sir, that smell. Sap from the pines. Nice, isn’t it.’

Lamb turned to him, bemused. ‘Uh yes, very pleasant.’

‘It always says “Greece” to me, sir, don’t you agree?’

‘You know Athens well?’

‘Didn’t I tell you, sir? A trip to study the antiquities, when I was up at university.’

Lamb shook his head. ‘Where haven’t you been, Valentine? In that case you can point us in the direction of the British Legation.’

A few blocks on they found what he had been looking for. The Hotel Grande Bretagne was a huge neo-classical building built a little like a wedding-cake, with a colonnade of Romanesque arches running the length of the front. Lamb told the men to wait and, jumping down, climbed the steps to the massive entrance doors. Inside the place was in uproar. The air was filled with the stench of burning papers. The few civil servants still remaining ran from room to room. He tried to stop one of them but was brushed aside. Looking around he saw a sign: the words ‘Billiard Room’ had been crossed out and ‘Information Office’ written in. Lamb walked towards it and found himself at the rear of the old hotel. There was a large mirror on one wall, and catching sight of himself he was momentarily horrified at his appearance. His brown, almost black hair, which in peacetime and on leave had been cut in a neat, military style by Truefit and Hill, had grown ragged in the month since the regimental barber had last had a go at it. The stubble to which he had grown accustomed, shaving just once every four days to save water, had grown almost beard-like, and the face that it hid was sallow and despite the tan somehow pale. But it was his eyes which most shocked Lamb. They seemed sunk into their sockets, as if all the misery he had seen in the past few weeks was hidden in their depths. He looked away and carried on. At the end of the corridor was a green-painted door.

He knocked and, not waiting for a reply, went in. A bespectacled man in his late forties, in a black suit, aided by another, much younger, was shoving pile after pile of papers on to the fire, which was burning gloriously. He turned and saw Lamb, his face ruddy from the fire glow, his grey hair tousled to the point of absurdity.

‘Army? You’re not needed here. Your chaps have cleared out. I should find your own place. Wherever that is now.’

‘Sorry, sir. I was just trying to find out about transport and someone told me …’

‘Yes, that’s the trouble, you see, Captain. Everyone knows better than the other person. Everybody tells someone something but nobody has the right answer.’ He paused for a moment, distracted from the burning. ‘This is the British Legation, Captain, not the Quartermaster’s stores. We do not deal in matters of military transport. I have quite enough to do packing the place up before the Germans get here. Now please leave us alone and find your own people.’

Lamb nodded and left, closing the door on the scene as the man threw more papers on to the cheerfully blazing pyre.

Outside Lamb found the men waiting, eager-faced. ‘Sorry, no joy there I’m afraid. The top brass have cleared out and the place is full of pen-pushers from the consulate. And bloody rude ones at that. We’ll just have to make our own way.’

He was about to get back into the truck when he turned, distracted by the noise of a commotion across the square. A group of civilians were arguing. There was nothing so remarkable about that. The thing was that this group of people was so obviously English.

There were three men and a woman. One of the men was tall and well-built, another short, thin and bespectaled, the last squat and slightly overweight. They wore a variety of clothing – tropical suits, blazers and even an Argyle-patterned jersey. The fat man was dressed in an astrakhan coat and sweating profusely. The woman was dark-haired and wore a fur coat and a silk scarf. They stood around a pile of small but expensive-looking suitcases, a single cabin trunk and, bizarrely, a portable gramophone. A little moustachioed Greek in a shabby black suit, white shirt and black tie – presumably someone’s servant – hopped and muttered around them as if he intended to physically propel them out of the town and out of his responsibility.

Lamb stared at them. The British civilian population had reportedly been evacuated several days before and he was just puzzling as to what on earth they were still doing here when the woman saw him and fixed his gaze with her own. She had dark eyes and a shock of auburn hair, which fell in the style of a Hollywood star about her shoulders, spilling over her scarf and on to the collar of her coat. Lamb was transfixed by her eyes, like a rabbit in a spotlight, and before he knew it, as some predator might when focusing on its quarry, she was running across the square towards him.

‘Sorry, I’m so sorry. Can you help? We’re English. Well, most of us are. All apart from poor Mr Papandreou, who lost his wife in an air raid.’ She put out her hand and for a second Lamb wasn’t sure whether she expected him to kiss it or shake it. He chose the latter. ‘Sorry. Miranda Hartley.’

She spoke with a clipped voice that betrayed an upbringing in the home counties and for a moment Lamb was transported back in time to another world, the world of his ex-wife and her friends. Lamb was frozen, lost for words, but only for a second. ‘Yes. I can see that. I’m not sure …’

‘Where have you come from? Have you any news?’ She smiled. ‘I suppose you’re sworn to secrecy. Have you been … at the front?’

He looked at her and tried to work out what she might be doing here. Was she the wife of a diplomat? An aristocrat who had missed the boat? He muttered, ‘No, no news I’m afraid. No good news, at least. We’re just looking for a way out.’

She smiled. ‘So are we. We must get away before the Germans get here. My husband is very important. He’s a writer. A novelist. You’ve probably heard of him. Julian Hartley. Over there, with the glasses.’ She waited for the acknowledgement, the recognition, the nod of the head, but none came.

Lamb saw her disappointment. ‘Yes, of course. Julian Hartley. Yes, you must get away.’

‘We were here on a lecture tour, you see. Julian’s publisher’s idea. Good for his public image, and Julian took Classics at Magdalene. In fact he knows Greece quite well. Actually he desperately wanted to come back to find material for his next book. It’s set here, you see. Lovely story. We were guests with the university. That’s how we met Mr Papandreous. Well, of course, I just had to come. And then all this happened. But you know you have to admit it. The Greeks are pretty indolent, aren’t they. Don’t you think that Rome is by far the nobler civilisation? Il Duce wants to return them to that time.’

‘You admire Mussolini?’

She looked shocked. ‘Don’t you? You know he’s really done wonders for that country.’

‘But not too much for its army.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. I’m not a soldier. Not like you. So you will help us, Captain?’

‘Well, I don’t really see how I can. You see I have orders. You know how it is.’

A man detached himself from the group and approached them, not her husband, the apparently famous writer, but a heavy-set man in his early thirties, dressed in white flannels and a blazer. A man, thought Lamb, dressed more for a riverside regatta than a war zone. He beamed at Lamb and spoke in a deep, self-consciously masculine voice, oozing confidence.

‘Comberwell. Freddie Comberwell. Have we met?’

Lamb did not make a habit of taking an instant dislike to people, but this man was an exception. Smiling, he shook his head. ‘No. I really don’t think so. Peter Lamb, North Kents.’

‘The Jackals. Golly. We are in safe hands. Seem to have got ourselves into a bit of a pickle. I was here on business, of course. I’m in oil. Cod liver oil. The Greeks can’t get enough of it. Worth a fortune. All those babies, you see. We actually had a factory here in Athens. Direct hit, wouldn’t you know it. It’s going to cost the company thousands. I’ve got to get home. Make my report. What a bloody shambles.’

This was becoming ridiculous, thought Lamb. The last thing he wanted was to find himself responsible for a bunch of civilians. Lamb went on, ‘Now look, I’m sorry but I have to reach my regiment in Egypt. I really don’t think …’

Comberwell was not to be dissuaded. ‘The thing is, old man, we’re really a bit stuck. Thought perhaps you might help.’

‘I’d love to, but as I was saying to Mrs Hartley I have orders. There’s nothing I can do. The British consul should be able to …’

Comberwell became agitated. ‘The consul’s gone. Didn’t you hear? Took a sea-plane to Alex yesterday. That’s why we’re stuck, old man.’

‘Isn’t there anyone else at the Legation?’

‘No, no one. We’ve been there. Just an odious little man called Dobson. Burning papers. Turned us away.’

Lamb nodded. ‘Yes, I met him too.’

‘Well, how do you suggest we are going to get out of here?’

Lamb shrugged. ‘I should get down to Piraeus, if I were you. The harbour. Get aboard whatever you can. There’s sure to be a boat.’

‘But what I mean is, how on earth are we going to get there?’

Lamb bit his lip and counted to ten. As he did so a stick of bombs fell less than half a mile inland in a series of explosions. Mrs Hartley jumped and gave a little shriek.

Lamb looked at Comberwell in desperation. ‘Oh, use your initiative, man, for God’s sake.’

He turned away in momentary disgust and despair. Very soon, he thought, this is the sort of man who if he manages to ever get back home is going to be conscripted into the army. And then God help us all. For the moment, however, the man is a helpless fool. If we leave him he will die, and who knows what will happen to the rest of them, including the woman.

The harbour quay and the beach below were filled now with soldiers, RAF ground crew by the dozen and all manner of civilians, all trying to find a ship or any other means of getting away from the Germans.

A New Zealand sergeant saw Lamb and spotted his pips. ‘You in charge, sir?’

‘No. Not really, Sarnt. Just trying to get my men away.’

‘Well, you’d better look sharp about it, sir. They’re only up the road. At Acharnes, someone said. The Jerries, that is. We’ve left the 4th Hussars as a rearguard and then they’ll just have to fend for themselves. Poor bloody cavalry. It’s another bloody balls-up.’

Lamb nodded. ‘Yes, Sarn’t. I think you may be right. Have you got a plan?’

‘We found some taxis parked up in the main square. A whole bloody fleet of them. I’d help you if we could, but they’re full already. I’ve got about 100 men to get away myself. You’re welcome to try your luck with our column, though, sir, if you’ve got your own transport. The harbour at Piraeus is fucked, though. Blown to shit. We’re off east to see if we can’t find a ship at Rafina. You might do the same, mate.’

Lamb bristled. ‘Thank you, Sarnt. I’ll take your advice. Good luck.’

‘Good luck, sir.’

On the corner of University Street a section of New Zealand infantrymen were setting up a machine-gun post, sandbagging it with sacks taken from the wall of a nearby café. Outside the same café several Greeks sat and watched the men at work, quietly drinking their coffee, saying nothing.

He turned to the men and then glimpsed the English beyond. They had stopped arguing now but were still talking. It was just too bad. He was an officer and, no matter what his personal feelings might be towards these misfits, his duty was to get his men to safety as soon as he could and back into action. As he was looking at the group a British major walked up to them, heading for the Hartleys. He was intercepted by Comberwell, who began to speak to him and pointed towards Lamb. The officer nodded and then spoke with Mrs Hartley. Then he looked across to Lamb and walked over.

‘Captain Lamb? Guy Whittaker, RHA. Look, I’ve a bit of a favour to ask you. Those people over there.’ He pointed to the British party.

‘Sir?’

‘You know who they are?’

‘Sir.’

‘Well, we really have to get them away. I know it may seem strange but Hartley’s quite a senior chap, actually. Friend of the GOC. At least their wives are buddies. The other chap I’m not concerned about, but he seems to have attached himself to them. Can you manage it?’

‘Is that an order, sir?’

The man looked at him, ‘Yes, you’d better take it as one. Don’t want to rattle the GOC, do we?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Fine, that’s settled then. Good luck.’

He walked back to the civilians and as he spoke to Miranda Hartley Comberwell turned to give Lamb a smile. Lamb strolled across to him, biting his lip.

‘Change of plan. I’ve been given orders to get you away. But I’m afraid you’ll have to look sharpish if you’re going to come with us.’

Comberwell smiled at him. ‘I say, that’s awfully decent of you. Righto. I’ll just find my kit.’

Lamb bristled. He seemed almost a caricature of an Englishman.

Hartley, the famous writer whose work he had never read, turned to Lamb. ‘It is frightfully decent of you. Let me buy you a drink. There’s a bar across the road. They’re bound to have some champagne. The good stuff.’

‘With respect, Mr Hartley, I don’t think this is quite the time. But that is very kind. Let’s postpone it till we’re all safe in Alex, shall we?’

‘Quite. Yes, of course, quite right. Should never have suggested it. Bad idea. Must get on and get your men away. Can’t keep the Jackals waiting. You know when I join up, which won’t be before long, I’m sure, I’ve half a mind to put in for a commission with your mob. Will you put in a word for me?’

Lamb looked at him. Could the man really be serious? Lamb wondered what the recruiting officer would say, and the adjutant for that matter. And then he realised that it was true, that before long men like Hartley, along with the bumptious idiot Comberwell, might be the only officers they had. ‘Yes, of course I will. Good show. I’m sure there’ll be no problem.’

Hartley turned to his wife. ‘Miranda, the captain here says he can get me a commission in the Jackals. Isn’t that splendid?’

Lamb muttered. ‘I didn’t actually say that I could do that. I will put a word in, of course.’

‘That would be so kind, Captain. I really don’t want Julian to fight, but if he must then … Well, he’s always wanted to be a soldier. Like Dr Johnson.’

They smiled at each other and Lamb began to wonder whether he might not have been rash in suggesting he might help them to get away. There was a respectful cough behind him and Lamb turned to see a corporal. Lamb returned the salute and, looking for his buttons, saw that he belonged to the Grenadier Guards, which was strange, as, to the best of his knowledge, there were no Guards units in Greece.

‘Captain Lamb, sir?’

‘Corporal.’

‘I’ve been sent to fetch you, sir. A matter of urgency. Would you come with me, sir?’

‘Where to, Corporal? On whose orders?’

‘My commanding officer, sir. It’s not far.’

Lamb called across to Charles Eadie. ‘Lieutenant, take command. I shan’t be long.’

He followed the corporal across the street and down an alleyway. ‘I hope this is not going to take long, Corporal. You do know that Jerry’s about to pay us a visit.’

‘Not long, sir, no.’

They kept walking at a brisk pace and eventually Lamb found himself in a back street that might have come from any eastern town. It reminded him of his one never-to-be-repeated visit to the Birkah in Cairo, with washing strung across the road and scantily clad women hanging out of the windows, touting for custom.

‘Where the hell have you brought me, Corporal? If this is some sort of practical joke I’ll have you …’

‘No joke, sir. Sorry, sir.’ The corporal pushed open a door. ‘The colonel’s just in here, sir.’

Glancing at the man, Lamb entered and followed the Guardsman into a house and down a narrow passageway. It was stiflingly hot, dimly lit by one bare light bulb and smelt of incense and spices, masking an underlying stench of disinfectant. They turned to the right and then left and at last the corporal pushed open another door. ‘Here we are, sir.’

Lamb walked in, past the corporal’s arm, and saw an officer sitting at a desk before him. Another soldier, a towering Grenadier warrant officer, was standing against one wall. The man looked up and Lamb recognised him instantly.

‘Hello, Peter. Do sit down. WO Pullen, would you leave us for a moment?’

The Guardsman nodded, ‘Sir,’ and walked smartly out of the room, closing the door behind him. Lamb seated himself on a small upright chair in front of the desk and looked at the man who had summoned him to this unlikely office.

He was a colonel, and even though he was sitting down it was obvious that he was a tall man, lean and fit with it. He smiled at Lamb and Lamb wanted to return the smile, but instead he frowned. For this was the man who had seen to his quick promotion, and it had been the colonel too who had suggested to Lamb that he might join that new elite unit. Lamb knew as soon as he saw him that an encounter with Colonel ‘R’ could only mean trouble. Particularly when he smiled.

The colonel spoke. ‘How wonderful to see you, Peter. I could hardly believe it when they told me you were in Athens. What a stroke of luck. About all we’ve had so far in this damned campaign.’

‘Yes, sir. It has been rather rough.’

‘Well, it’s going to get rougher. For all of us. Now you’re probably wondering why I called you here. And you’re probably thinking that I’ve hatched another mad plan.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The colonel smiled again. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re absolutely right. Don’t worry. It’s nothing to do with Section D, and I don’t want you to join the commandos. Those are purely voluntary. You won’t need to leave your men. In fact they’re integral to the whole scheme.’

‘Sir, are you quite certain that you’ve got the right man?’

‘Absolutely. As I said, I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were here. Last-minute miracle. I was beginning to despair.’

‘Can I ask how exactly you did hear, sir?’

‘No. Not really. Let’s just say that someone whom you know, knows who you are. That is to say they knew that you were here. And they told me, and as soon as I heard that I had you brought here. That any clearer?’

‘Not really, sir. No.’

‘Well, that’s it. The walls have ears, you know, Peter. Can’t be too careful.’

‘Evidently not.’

It was instantly apparent to him that the colonel’s spy, whoever he or she was, had to be one of the British party. Either that or one of his own men, or most unlikely of all a Kiwi or an Aussie. He called to mind the civilians and had begun to wonder which one it could be before he realised that the colonel was speaking.

‘Now come on, Peter. There’s no need to be like that. This is hardly the man I know. The hero of St Valéry.’

‘Well, perhaps I’ve changed then, sir. Greece is a shambles.’

The colonel nodded. ‘Yes. I couldn’t agree more. And to stop it becoming an utter farce is the reason you’re here. What do you know about the Greek monarchy?’

‘Not much, sir. I know they’ve got a King at least and that he may be somehow related to Queen Victoria. And that he was deposed and then put back on the throne. That’s about it.’

‘That’ll do. For starters. They do have a King. King George II. And yes, you’re right, he was deposed and reinstated. And where do you suppose he is now?’

‘Probably en route to somewhere a long way away from here. We saw Prince Peter driving for the coast.’

‘Did you now? That’s the King’s cousin. Important chappie. In the Greek army. Liaison with us. Good sort. And yes, right again. The King is getting away. In fact …’ He looked at his watch. ‘By my reckoning he should be making landfall in Crete just about now.’

‘Crete, sir?’

‘Yes, island to the south of us.’

Lamb nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Delightful place. Stayed there myself once. Full of old buildings and ruins. Very important. Well, that’s where the King has gone to get away from Jerry. And well he might.’

‘Sir?’

‘Herr Hitler has seen fit to declare King George an enemy of the Greek people. Damned impertinence. An enemy of his own people! That little man has no concept of manners. Well, now. What I want you to do is to go to Crete and keep an eye on him.’

‘Keep an eye on him, sir?’

‘Yes. Just that. Well, a little more. Forget about going to Alex. Get yourself and your men off to Crete. Find the King as soon as you can. Don’t let him know what you’re there for until you’re needed. That’ll be soon enough. We want to try to keep the thing as hush-hush as we can. In fact you may not even have to meet him. Just keep yourself aware of where he is, and if the Germans invade the island be prepared to help with his evacuation. Is that clear?’

Lamb shook his head. ‘Quite clear, sir. You want me to babysit the King of Greece and if the Germans come for him help him escape to Egypt.’

‘Precisely. Although I wouldn’t say “babysit” was quite the right expression. “Unofficial bodyguard” is how I would put it.’

‘Without his knowing?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘You can’t.’ The colonel had stopped smiling now. ‘Try it and I’ll see to it that you lose your captaincy.’

‘Can you tell me why the King is so vitally important? Greece itself I think I can see. It’s part of Mr Churchill’s grand plan for a southern alliance against the Axis. But the King? Wouldn’t I be better off fighting?’

‘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.’

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 buggers,’ 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.’