Читать книгу Jackals’ Revenge - Iain Gale, Iain Gale - Страница 8

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.

Lamb got to his feet and steadied himself on the rail. Looking around he saw nothing but empty sea. Ahead of them, lying on the surface, lay a bank of fog, or it might simply have been the mist of early morning. Instantly his fears of the night returned for, as he had imagined, their ship was apparently quite alone. The convoy with which they had sailed had gone, it seemed, and with it their greatest defence against air attack. Lamb turned to Hallam. ‘We’ve lost them. The bloody convoy. It’s gone.’

Hallam yelled back. ‘No fault of mine, Lamb. I told you, I’m no sailor. I did my level best.’

Lamb swore. Of course the man was no sailor, he was a cavalryman. But then neither was he. Another two hours and the mist began to lift and Lamb realised that without it they were sitting ducks for the Luftwaffe.

There was still no sign of the convoy and he wondered how far they were from Crete. The sea was calmer now, but his head was reeling with the motion of the boat. So much so in fact that he was not sure, later, whether he had heard the noise first or seen the black speck in the sky. It was Eadie, though, who shouted first. ‘Aircraft. Get down.’

Lamb stared at the approaching black dot. It was hopeless. In a few seconds the fighter would be upon them, and then it would just be a matter of time. For all their Lewis guns they were defenceless against an Me109, and God knew what other planes were close behind it. And then, in a split second, he had it.

He looked around. How many of them were up top? About half his men and a good dozen of the hussars, including Captain Hallam. The British civilians had chosen to take their chances in the hold. On the deck, though, was a party of Greek civilians on whom Hallam had taken pity at the last minute before they set sail.

He yelled. ‘All you men, down below. Now. All of you.’

There was a frantic scramble. Still the plane was a black dot, but it was getting bigger with every second. The men threw themselves down the hatches and Lamb turned to the Greeks. Hallam saw him. ‘Lamb?’

He shouted back. ‘Down. Get in the hold.’

Not questioning him, the cavalryman slipped down the narrow ladder and was gone just as Lamb began to speak. ‘All of you.’ He had no Greek, he gestured. A waving gesture. Desperate. What to say? Where was Valentine? He looked into the sky. The plane was almost above them now. Lamb flung himself into the top of the hatch and collided with Valentine, who was climbing out on to the deck, his head and shoulders covered with a black scarf. He brushed past Lamb, then turned and spoke quickly in Greek to the women, as Lamb ducked into the hatch.

The Messerschmidt fighter came in over the mast and as it did so it dropped its height and swooped down over the little boat. Lamb, his head just below the opening, froze. He saw Valentine, sitting alongside the Greek women, his head still covered in the scarf.

Obeying Valentine to the letter, the women in the front looked up and waved. Valentine too. The plane passed and Lamb watched it go. But then, to his horror, he saw the plane bank and then turn. It was returning now, diving straight towards them at greater speed, and he thought, This is it. You are going into your attack dive. On it came, and any second he waited for the machine-guns to open fire. But instead the pilot rolled his wings and as he passed them came close enough so that they could see him wave back. Then, as Lamb watched the German fighter turn tail and run, he pushed up through the hatch, his feet slipping on the steps, and found Valentine. ‘Valentine, you’re a bloody marvel. You had the same idea. Did you see him?’

‘Yes, sir. Only too pleased to help. It’s easier if you speak the lingo.’

‘Well, we’d better keep an eye out. He may have bought it but I’m not convinced that he won’t be back with some of his mates.’

However, another two hours came and went and neither the fighter nor any of his mates returned.

The sun was high in a cloudless sky now and Lamb leant against the painted rail of the ship’s forward deck and peered at the sight that was gradually unfolding before him. There were other men at the rail now, pointing and chattering, as yard by precious yard, across the azure sea, the coast of Crete drew closer. What had first been merely the line of a land mass soon became an island and Lamb was able to make out a town with whitewashed houses. He saw lush avenues of green, poplars and lemon trees, and imposing larger villas. On the slopes behind the town endless rows of olive groves stood in knotted groups amid the vineyards. He could see the quay now, already a mass of ships, men and material. In the distance, beyond the White Mountains, the rising sun pushed higher in the sky with a crimson light – a surreal, theatrical backdrop to this scene of ethereal beauty. Lamb was aware of a presence to his right. Charles Eadie, puffing on a heavily scented cigarette.

‘Pretty sight, sir, isn’t it?’

‘Very pretty, Charles. Just like a picture postcard. You know I’ve always wanted to visit the Mediterranean islands. Ever since I was a boy. Must have been all that Homer at school.’

Eadie laughed. ‘Oh yes, the Greek myths, sir. Odysseus and all that stuff. My favourite was the one about the Cyclops. You know that giant of a chap who lives in the cave and only has one eye.’

‘And ends up by eating half of Odysseus’ crew before he’s killed. Yes, I think that’s one of mine too. I wonder how many of our lot have got away from Greece to here. There seem to be a hell of a lot of ships in the harbour.’

‘I expect we’ll be off to Alex soon, sir, anyway, won’t we? You never know, you might be able to get a bit of sightseeing in. You know, ancient ruins and all that.’

‘Yes. I believe the palace of Knossos is rather special. They’ve been digging it up for years. Some English professor.’

They were suddenly conscious at that same moment of a humming noise and both knew instantly what it was as it built above them in the sky. Lamb shouted, ‘Aircraft, get down,’ and instinctively every one of the men and women on board the Andromeda cowered and sheltered their heads with their hands, waiting for the scream of the siren as the Stukas fell upon them. But none came. Instead, the noise passed over them. Lamb raised his head and saw silhouetted against the brightening sky the shape of two Hurricanes, bearing the tricolour target roundels of the RAF, which as they passed over the ships off the coast tipped their wings from side to side in salute.

‘Thank God, sir. They’re British. I never thought I’d feel safe again.’

‘Well, I shouldn’t depend on feeling that way for too long, Charles. It’s my honest opinion that what just flew over our heads might well be the entire air defence capability of this island.’

The ship drew closer to the island and as it did so Lamb was quickly aware that his vision of Eden was not quite as serene as it might at first have seemed. Gazing at the clear blue waters near the shore he could now make out that one of the ships which he had presumed to be riding at anchor was actually tilted at an awkward angle. Her bridge had been blown away and there was a huge gaping hole in her forward deck. He looked to his right and saw another wreck, a tanker. Squinting, he was able to make out the lettering on her hull: Eleanora Maersk. There was smoke coming from her decks and now and then he saw a lick of flame. There were other ships too: half-submerged Royal Navy vessels, caiques and smaller boats, funnels and masts protruding from the water and debris. He stared down as they passed by one of the hulks and saw that what he had presumed to be driftwood was in fact a dead body, bloated and floating face down. He realised that the sea was full of them and that there was nothing that could be done to clear them. As they drew closer the smell which had begun to permeate the air of burnt metal and wood, cordite and oil grew stronger and he felt at first just nauseous, then suddenly cold and filled with a sense of foreboding. Prompted by Eadie, his schoolboy Greek mythology came back to him again and for an instant he thought of Charon, ferrying the dead in his boat across the river Styx to Hades.

He turned to Eadie. ‘I say, Charles, you haven’t got one of those fags to hand, have you?’

The lieutenant clicked open his silver cigarette case and offered it to Lamb, who drew out a thin white cigarette from behind the elastic strip.

‘Turkish?’

‘Egyptian, actually,’ said Eadie. ‘Got them from an old Jew in Cairo. Damned good smoke, sir. Hard to find.’

Lamb lit up and puffed away, his nerves calmed by the sweet smoke. Within minutes they were through the ghastly debris. Lamb let his gaze drift to the quay, which appeared to be littered with military equipment and stores of every kind, from lorries and miscellaneous crates to ammunition boxes, stacks of artillery shells and even a single light tank around which a crowd of local boys had gathered. Beyond the town he could see quite clearly now rolling farmland rising away to the south towards the snow-crested White Mountains.

Many ships clustered in the bay, some afloat, others resting on the shallow bottom – further evidence of enemy air activity. He couldn’t help but allow himself a feeling of relief at having eluded the enemy on the mainland, and in the fresh morning sunshine he knew that his troops, though very weary, were in the same good spirits. They were almost at the quay now and he could see that it was thronged with locals and men in khaki of all descriptions going about their duties with ant-like precision and purpose.

Valentine had joined them close to the rail and stood staring at the closing coastline, and then without warning burst into verse.

‘The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!

Where burning Sappho loved and sung.

Where grew the arts of war and peace,

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!

Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.’

He finished and waited for a comment, but none came. ‘That’s Byron, sir.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I just thought it somehow appropriate for our situation, sir.’

‘Which is?’

‘Well, as I see it, sir, the sun is going down on this little part of civilisation. The cradle of civilisation if you like, sir.’

‘You think too much, Valentine.’

‘Yes, sir. Terribly sorry, sir.’

A tug drew alongside them and a naval officer yelled at them through a megaphone. ‘Ahoy. See that caique, tied up to the quay? Moor alongside her and disembark across her. Is that clear?’

Hallam called back. ‘Quite clear, thank you.’

Their boat drew up alongside the caique and, once the crew had fastened the two together with ropes, they began to move across. Lamb turned to the men on deck. ‘Sarnt Mays, take your section off first and form a guard. Civilians off next, and then the rest of you, by section.’

Mays led his men off and over the floating dock. Once ashore, they fanned out either side of the gangway. Lamb watched Miranda Hartley and the others step gingerly from their boat on to the caique and walk across its rocking deck before going down the gangway. They stepped ashore as if they were leaving a P&O cruise liner. He half expected to see her turn to Hallam and shake his hand to thank him as she might the liner’s captain. Then, in as orderly a manner as possible, the rest of them followed.

There was a sudden wailing. Air-raid sirens. Lamb craned his neck and scanned the skies but saw nothing. Nevertheless the ack-ack guns on shore in their little sandbagged half-moons opened fire. Mays’ section ducked instinctively and the civilians looked up to see the danger but to his surprise none of the crowd on shore seemed very concerned and the khaki figures carried on about their business. The sirens stopped as abruptly as they had begun and the guns ceased a few seconds later. More wasted ammunition, thought Lamb. And why? Because, he guessed, some jittery young artillery spotter in a slit-trench on a hill outside the town had thought he had seen a Jerry plane. It had probably been a seagull.

Lamb found Hallam by the mooring. ‘Thank you. You got us all here safely.’

‘No thanks to me. I lost the convoy, didn’t I?’

‘Probably sailed straight on to Alexandria. But it was your work that got us here.’

‘Perhaps, but it was thanks to your sergeant that we weren’t shot to pieces. He’s an extraordinary man, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he is. That’s one word for it. But anyway, thank you. What will you do now?’

‘Try to find a tank if I can. I reckon a few of our mob will be here already. I’m sure to find them. They’re not very good at keeping out of mischief, especially in a place like this.’

Lamb walked down the gangway and no sooner had his feet touched the stone of the quayside than he heard a voice shouting. He looked around.

A neatly turned out British staff officer in a peaked cap liberally adorned with brass was addressing Mays’ section. ‘Pile any heavy weapons over there, you men. Everything but rifles and side arms. Over there. We’re going to pool all the heavy weapons. Orders from the GOC.’

Bennett looked at Lamb and raised an eyebrow before taking him aside and speaking to him quietly.

‘Things must be bad, sir. But I’ll be damned if I’m giving up the Lewis guns. I thought this might happen, sir. Took the precaution of having them dismantled. We’ve got a piece each, all us NCOs. We took the ones from the boat too, sir. Course we’ll have to leave the mortars. Can’t do much with them.’

‘Well done, Sarnt-Major. Quite right. Important to keep something with us. Hand them in now and we’ll never see them again. Whose brilliant idea was this, I wonder? No one will notice. Stubbs will be furious about his precious mortars, though.’

The last men off were unloading what few pieces of everyday kit they had managed to bring away from the mainland, which consisted mainly of blankets and rations, and a box of company documents including maps and a copy of King’s Regulations, along with the civilians’ travelling cases.

The crowd of Cretans that had gathered on the quayside moved towards them now and Lamb saw they were holding objects in their hands. One of the women, an elderly matron in a black dress and shirt, caught his arm and, saying something in a guttural Greek dialect he had never before encountered, smiled at him toothlessly as she pressed something into his palm. Lamb looked down and saw it was an orange. He saw other girls and women giving his men and others newly arrived on the quayside ceramic bowls of milky-white ice cream and spoons with which to eat it. At first the men just stared at them in disbelief, but it did not take long for them to accept the gifts. Lamb said thank you to the old woman, who nodded before turning and walking back to her house, just as if this was something she did every day.

Miranda Hartley came up to him. ‘Ice cream and fruit. They seem very pleased to see you, Captain.’ She spotted the orange in his hand. ‘I say, do you want your orange?’

‘No, you have it, please.’

Bennett found him as he handed it to her. He gestured to the men who were greedily eating the ice cream. ‘Sir, is this all right by you?’

Lamb smiled. ‘Fine, Sergeant. Of course. For all we know the men might not see oranges or ice cream again for a very long time. Let them take it if they want.’

Mrs Hartley, he saw, was already tucking into his own orange and at least half of him wished he hadn’t given it to her. Valentine saw him. ‘It’s all right, sir. I’ve got two. Have one of mine.’

Lamb took the orange and, peeling it quickly, began to bite into the juicy flesh and pith, savouring it as he had enjoyed no orange before.

The staff officer, a major, walked over to Lamb. He was holding a large pad and a pencil. ‘And who are you, Captain? Where have you come from?’

Lamb swallowed hard on a piece of orange and tucked the rest behind his back. ‘Lamb, sir. Captain Peter Lamb. A Company, North Kents. We’ve come from Athens, sir.’

‘North Kents.’ He jotted it down on his pad. ‘From Athens. Yes, you will have done. Well done, Captain. Well, now you’re in Creforce holding Area A. Take your men off up that road there. How many are you?’

‘Forty men, sir. We’ve lost a few. We fought through Greece.’

The major ignored the last comment and pointed to the east. ‘Take yourselves off up that road there and make camp in one of the olive groves. If you can find one, that is. We’ve got thousands of chaps like you. Odds and ends. Don’t worry. We’ll decide what to do with you and where to send you soon enough. We’re building a transit camp up at Perivolia. But you know what the army’s like, Captain. For the moment I should just make camp. And do keep your men in control, Captain, if you can. There are some men out there – Australians and New Zealanders mostly – wandering through the vineyards and taking the law into their own hands. It’s a nightmare, I can tell you. And it makes my job no easier.’

‘We have some civilians with us, sir. British. A woman and three men.’ He indicated Miranda Hartley. ‘Where are they to go?’

‘They’ll have to fend for themselves, I’m afraid, British or not. Too many civilians here too now, and no legation. Nothing. Can’t help everyone, you know. Enough to sort out with you lot. Just find yourselves an olive grove and await further orders. I’m off to the GOC. More bloody paperwork, I expect.’

And with that he was gone. Lamb stared after the man as he rounded on some other hapless new arrivals. He began again on the orange, and as he chewed Miranda Hartley came over. ‘I say. What luck. A friend of Mr Papandreou’s says we can stay with him. In his villa. Isn’t that nice? Where are you staying?’

‘To be honest, I was just wondering the same thing myself.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll find some lovely house somewhere. You officers always land on your feet.’

There was a loud and insistent ‘parp’ from a car horn. ‘That’ll be for me, I expect. Better go. Mustn’t keep them waiting. See you soon, I hope, Captain. And thank you for all your help.’

She shook his hand and then ran off towards where Hartley and the others were waiting in two long, elegant, highly polished convertibles. Watching her go, Lamb smiled and summed up their current situation to himself.

They were standing on a narrow harbour-front street of Italianate villas with neat, walled gardens of palm and lemon trees. Two cafés sat directly opposite each other on a corner, their gaudy awnings draped over rows of empty chairs. The larger of the two bore a sign: ‘Plaza Bar Tourist Hotel’. Lamb pointed to it. ‘Sarnt-Major. Ten minutes’ rest. Sit the men down over there.’

‘All right you lot. Ten minutes. Savvy?’

As the men fell out and rested on chairs which until only recently had been occupied by holidaymakers, Lamb turned. ‘Valentine, you seem well versed in the area. Tell me exactly where we are.’

‘Place called Canea, sir. It’s an old Venetian trading port. Popular with the tourist trade. Very picturesque.’

‘So I see. Where’s Mr Wentworth?’

‘Over there, sir. Eating an ice cream.’

Lamb walked across to the lieutenant. ‘Wentworth, are we all present and accounted for?’

Wentworth, who was licking slowly at a spoonful of ice cream, straightened up. ‘I think so, sir.’

Lamb smirked. ‘Think so is not quite what I asked, Lieutenant. What are our numbers?’

‘Thirty-eight, sir. But we have five walking wounded and six with dysentery.’

‘Right. So effective strength of twenty-seven.’

‘Sir.’

His company had become a platoon. They were low on rations, had ragged uniforms and few of them were properly armed.

‘Weapons?’

‘We’re missing twelve rifles. But we do still have the Brens and the two Lewis guns from the boat.’

He looked at his men. Most, like him, had not shaved for more than a week and the tired, drawn faces and sunken eyes told their own tale of what they had witnessed. As if to emphasise their state, at that moment around the corner came a platoon of British soldiers. They were marching in time, in a column of twos, with a sergeant-major at their head and to the right. As they passed several of Lamb’s men gave them a wolf-whistle but the soldiers did not even look towards them. Lamb searched their uniforms for insignia.

Fred Smart was standing beside him. ‘Blimey, sir. Who the hell’s that lot? The Coldstream Guards?’

‘No, Smart. I would hazard a guess that that’s the Welch Regiment. They’re the official Crete garrison. Well, part of it at least. They weren’t in Greece.’

‘I should coco. Sorry, sir.’

They might look, he thought, as if they had just come off parade at Horse Guards, but Lamb was grateful for their presence and their appearance. It brought him back to order. And despite the wolf-whistles he knew it was just what was needed to restore his men’s confidence in the army. And they desperately needed that now.

Having reached the quayside, the newcomers stopped and divided into three sections, one of which moved across to Lamb. Their sergeant approached him.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you would be new arrivals, would you?’ He spoke with a just discernible Welsh accent.

‘Yes, Sarnt. Just got here.’

‘Did you see the major, sir?’

‘Yes, thank you, Sarnt. I saw the major.’

‘Well, sir, he will have told you, I’m guessing, to go up that road there to the olive groves. Didn’t he? It’s a good mile, sir.’

Lamb smiled. He knew that ‘a good mile’ meant an ‘army mile’, and an army mile meant any distance you wanted it to mean.

The man continued. ‘You’ll find a lovely field kitchen, sir, up there. It’s not that far. Each of your men will get a nice mug of tea, some bread and cheese, an orange, some chocolate and some fags. You too, if you want them, sir. The assembly points and your bivvy area will be about seven miles farther on, isn’t it.’

Lamb wondered if the sergeant meant seven ‘good miles’.

‘Thank you, Sarnt. That’s very clear. We’ll set out in five minutes. I’m just letting the men have a rest. We’ve had a bit of a journey.’