Marine B SBS

by Ian Blake

  The defeat of the German patrol had certainly given the morale of the Italians a lift, he decided, not only because their former, and intensely disliked, allies, had been beaten – and had shown themselves to be beatable – but because the tiny garrison had survived its baptism of fire. The male sex was pretty basic, Tiller realized now. Only two things concerned them: that they could screw and that they weren’t cowards – and they frequently needed proof of both.

  Tiller had no doubt now that if the Germans returned to Piscopi the garrison would fight. Tiller had told them that if they didn’t he would come back and shoot them himself. He had come to like, almost respect, those dark, scruffy men. They weren’t, he knew now, as bad soldiers as their army’s reputation had led him to believe. Given the right leadership, they could be tough and resilient. He remembered Giovanni’s wild, whooping cries as he had charged forward on the hillside waving his gun above his head, and grinned to himself. It had been quite a sight.

  ‘Heard you had quite a time of it on Piscopi the other day,’ Griffiths said as if reading the SBS man’s thoughts. ‘Those Jerries you brought back with you seemed fucking fed up with life. I suppose they thought they’d just come to beat up a few Eyeties. Hadn’t reckoned on you lot.’

  Tiller flung the dregs of his tea into the water. ‘It’s just been patrols we’ve encountered so far,’ he said. ‘Reckon they’ll be moving in with more fire-power soon.’

  ‘Larssen has got the Eyeties here running around like scared rabbits,’ Griffiths said cheerfully. ‘When the Krauts come, we’ll be ready for them.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Tiller shaved, fried himself two eggs, lit a cigarette, and was watching the sun rise over the mainland when Larssen appeared on the quay.

  ‘We’ve just heard from our observation post on Stampalia that an RAF crew have been stranded there. Engine failure apparently and they had to ditch. Several of them are hurt, so they need taking off quickly. I don’t want to ask Balbao as I want to conserve what fuel he has, but Andrew’s back from Leros and he said he’d pick them up in the caique. But he needs one of us to go with him. Fancy a few days at sea?’

  ‘Sure, skipper,’ said Tiller, flicking his cigarette stub into the harbour. ‘Better than sitting here waiting for the Krauts to come.’

  ‘Good,’ Larssen said, and then added mischievously: ‘Andrew’s going to need to take that girl with him, so you should have an enjoyable trip, Tiger. You know how romantic the sea can be.’

  ‘You tell me, skipper,’ said Tiller, surprised at the embarrassment he felt. ‘You were in the merchant navy.’

  ‘Ah, but only cargo ships. Never aboard liners. Too bad. Anyway, work before women, Tiger, work before women.’ And with those few words of advice Larssen turned away.

  ‘Work before women’ was one of Larssen’s catchphrases. It was, Tiller decided, just another way of issuing the old warning to keep your eye on the ball and not be distracted. Larssen stopped and turned round.

  ‘Oh, Tiger?’

  ‘Skipper?’

  ‘I think you did a good job on Piscopi. Well done.’

  ‘Thanks, skipper. But they almost foxed me.’

  ‘Almost. But they didn’t, did they? I begin to think I was wrong about you.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Spit and polish, Tiger, spit and polish. A good man, I said to myself when we first met – no doubt about that. Disciplined. Well trained. All that. Just who we need if we’re in a tight spot to blow something up for us. But can I make him into a pirate? I asked myself. Is he a brigand at heart. Can he think on his feet. I looked at you that first day, Tiger, with your brass belt and shiny cap badge, and I must say I had my doubts.’

  Tiller glanced down at his dirt-encrusted boots and the shirt and shorts he hadn’t changed for a week, and grinned. It seemed a far cry from the immaculate lines of Marines drawn up in perfect order on the parade ground at Eastney, and said so.

  ‘I wouldn’t know one end of a parade ground from another,’ Larssen said. ‘But you have made me think it is not a total waste of time.’

  ‘Any news of what’s happening?’

  ‘I think it’s a matter of who builds up the most forces the quickest. The boss did a good job paving the way for the army, which now has three battalions in place, one each on Kos, Samos and Leros. But it’s going to be a hard job keeping them supplied. And us for that matter. Every day there seem to be more attacks by the Luftwaffe. Yesterday they sank two of our destroyers at Leros. I’d say it’s touch and go at the moment. But at least they still don’t seem to know we’re here on Simi.’

  At dusk that evening an SBS medical orderly boarded the caique with three stretchers and his medical equipment. Kristos had imposed a curfew on the port to curb the hotheads among the locals, so Angelika had no difficulty in slipping aboard unnoticed soon afterwards. Half an hour later the caique motored out of the harbour flying the Turkish ensign at the truck of her mast.

  Naval intelligence at Beirut had passed on to the SBS the information that, according to the Andartes’ report Tiller had brought back from Rhodes, the Germans were indeed rapidly building up reinforcements and supplies on the island, and were also increasing their air and sea patrols among the other islands. There was, therefore, an increased risk of encountering an armed schooner or caique, so the Solothurn was loaded and a spare magazine placed beside it under the foresail. Griffiths propped himself against the mast ready to man it at a moment’s notice; the others had their Lanchester carbines and Stens out of sight but close at hand.

  The cockle had been removed and the three stretchers had been lashed to the deck in its place under the folds of the mainsail. There was, too, extra water, drums of fuel, and ammunition. Angelika acknowledged Tiller’s presence with an impassive nod and a brief smile before settling herself beside Maygan in the cockpit. They spread out a local chart on their knees to estimate the best course for the caique to take to their destination.

  Stampalia was the most westerly of the Dodecanese and lay some seventy miles from Simi. To reach it, Maygan and Angelika decided the safest route was to sail north towards the finger of Turkish coastline that stuck out into the Aegean and helped to form the Gulf of Doris. Though the Germans as well as the British infringed Turkish neutral waters, it made sense to keep as close as possible to the Turkish coastline and to make as much of the open-sea crossing as possible during the hours of darkness.

  As Simi and the tiny island of Nimos to the immediate north of it dropped slowly astern the Matilda engine throbbed and burbled with a smooth power that kept a little smile of satisfaction on Stoker Bryson’s face. The medic cut up a watermelon and passed slices around. The short crossing of the gulf to the Turkish mainland took less than an hour, but it seemed much longer as they scanned the night horizon and listened for the sound of marine engines.

  Halfway across they fancied they did hear the faint, powerful throb of what was probably an E-boat. But they saw nothing and it soon faded, and once they were well within Turkish waters, the tension lessened. Maygan altered course to motor westwards and soon afterwards entered the bay he had decided to lay up in during daylight hours.

  Once they were safely moored and the camouflage netting had been erected Griffiths brewed some tea and issued corned-beef sandwiches before they settled down to wait, and to sleep if they could. Dawn came red and glowing behind the barren mountains. They waited all day and watched the sun creep around in a deep-blue sky until, by evening, it began to sink behind the volcanic island of Nisiros, and the much smaller islands of Yali and Yassi to the north of it. No garrisons, German or Italian, had been reported on Nisiros and there was no sign of life on it when, after darkness fell, they steered between the islands.

  ‘How the hell do you find your way around at night when there aren’t any lighthouses or buoys,’ Tiller asked Maygan, for the young lieutenant now seemed to have perfected a method of sailing among the islands on moonless nights to drop off SBS reconnaissance patr
ols or supplies for those manning lookout posts.

  ‘By silhouette,’ Maygan replied. ‘You start off on a certain course knowing that you’ll come to a rock or an island. That’s your point of departure. You then alter course until the silhouette of one mountain or island can be seen between the gap of other mountains or islands. Or the end of one island overlaps the end of another. That’s your transit. You know you’re on the correct course for wherever you want to go. You can only do it in fine weather, of course, and I still need someone who knows the area to pilot me into some of the harbours or creeks. The charts we’re using are hopelessly out of date.’

  He showed Tiller what he meant by lining up the southern tip of Nisiros with the tiny island of Kandhilousa, which lay beyond it. As long as the outline of Kandhilousa was kept on their starboard bow they were safe from the rocks that extended from Cape Lutros, the southernmost point of Nisiros. But once the cape was abeam they changed course to keep Kandhilousa on their port bow.

  Once clear of the rugged coastlines and the numerous tiny islets west of Nisiros, Maygan altered course slightly to the south to bring the caique into the tiny port of Maltezana, their agreed rendezvous with the SBS men on the island, which lay towards the northern end of Stampalia.

  During the night the wind increased suddenly – the beginnings of a late meltemi, Angelika said – and sent spray flying across the deck, and by the early morning they were all cold and wet. At dawn they could see Stampalia ahead, its twin mountain peaks making it look at first like two separate islands. With Angelika issuing directions Maygan steered the caique towards Maltezana, threading it between several rugged islands that guarded its entrance. The foreshore was surprisingly green, a pleasant contrast from the barren hills behind, and the earth was tinged with red. Once in the bay they were sheltered from the meltemi.

  The quay was empty except for the SBS lance-corporal waiting for them. He had brought the two uninjured members of the RAF crew to the port, but reported that the other two were quite badly hurt, so he had thought it best not to move them.

  The stretchers and stores were unloaded and the Solothurn was stripped and dried and thoroughly oiled before being replaced on its bipod. Then Tiller, Bryson and the medic, guided by the SBS man, set off with two stretchers for Panormos, on the other side of the island, where the lookout post had been established. They crossed the narrow isthmus and then followed the coastline until they came to a small bay.

  Overlooking the bay and with a view of a great sweep of the Aegean was a small wooden hut which the SBS men had reinforced with rocks inside. Below the horizon to the south-west was German-occupied Crete; to the north-west, beyond the scattered islands of the western Aegean, was German-occupied Greece.

  ‘Seen much?’ Tiller asked the lance-corporal, Paddy Donington, while the medic attended the two injured RAF men, who lay in one corner.

  ‘You bet. Especially during the last couple of days. Aircraft mostly, making for Rhodes, but small shipping, too. Schooners, the occasional Siebel ferry, that sort of thing. Something big’s building, I reckon. Surprised you risked it.’

  ‘Cairo want the crew back,’ said Tiller laconically. ‘They’re far more valuable than any of us lot.’

  The medic got to his feet and came over to Tiller. He looked grave. ‘I’ve given one a shot of morphine. He’s got a broken leg. He’ll be all right. But the other chap’s in a bad way. No good moving him. He wouldn’t last the trek back to the port, far less the boat trip to Simi.’

  Tiller walked across to the dying man. He was no more than a kid. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘Internal injuries probably. It’s difficult to say.’

  Tiller glanced at his watch. There wasn’t much time. They had to sail at dusk. ‘How long do you reckon?’

  The medic knew what he meant. ‘Impossible to say. An hour, a day – who knows?’

  Tiller was wondering what to do when Donington approached him and drew him aside. ‘Dave’s been keeping an eye on a schooner coming in this direction from the north-west. He’s had it under observation for an hour or more. It’s not on the usual course for Rhodes. It could be coming here.’ Tiller followed Donington along a coastal path to the ruins of what must have once been a watchtower. The SBS man, Dave Shawn, crouching among the rubble, handed Tiller his binoculars and pointed out to sea. ‘That’s it,’ he said.

  Tiller focused the binoculars on the boat. It was large, with two masts, the shorter foremast identifying it as being a schooner. But it was now under power and was butting its way at about five knots through the waves being thrown up by the meltemi.

  ‘Schooner,’ Shawn said. ‘Looks as if it’s got a trehandiri rig.’

  ‘What the fuck’s that?’ said Tiller.

  ‘The sails are hoisted on a gaff that sticks out in front of the mast as well as behind. Rather like an Arab dhow. We call it a lugger rig. The Germans use them quite a bit.’

  Tiller could see four men on deck; as he scrutinized them four more came up from below. Even at the distance of some miles, there was no mistaking what they were.

  ‘You’re sure it’s heading here?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Donington. ‘Shipping for Rhodes usually passes well to the north or south.’

  ‘How long have we got before they arrive?’

  ‘If they’re making for Maltezana – which is the likeliest place they would land – at least three hours. Perhaps more.’

  They returned to the hut and Donington cranked on the landline telephone to contact Maltezana to warn them to expect visitors. Tiller collected Bryson and Donington, told the medic to stay with the RAF men and Dave, and set off for Maltezana.

  Maygan, when he heard that the German schooner might be making for the port, said: ‘We’ve got the element of surprise. We’ll wait for it by the next headland and blow it out of the water.’

  ‘What with?’ Tiller asked.

  ‘The Solothurn, of course.’

  Tiller looked at the curious weapon doubtfully. ‘Has anyone ever fired it?’ he asked.

  ‘I have,’ said Griffiths. ‘It kicks like a mule.’

  ‘I don’t propose to sit here and wait for them,’ said Maygan. Tiller knew Maygan was right. The only advantage they had was surprise. He hesitated nonetheless. He did not fancy putting his life in the hands of an amateur yachtsman who had, so far as he knew, no experience of battle.

  Maygan misinterpreted his reluctance. ‘Come on, Tiger. There’s only eight of them.’

  ‘I only saw eight,’ Tiller corrected him and, unwillingly, took the plunge. ‘You’re right, of course.’

  ‘Good. Find a spot where we’ll see them before they see us and lie up there under our camouflage net. They won’t know what hit them.’

  It was putting all their eggs in one basket, a bad principle at the best of times.

  ‘How about leaving Paddy ashore?’ Tiller suggested. ‘He could act as lookout, warn us when they’re coming in case we don’t hear their engine, and he could put down some useful covering fire.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Maygan warmly. ‘Griffiths will man the Solothurn, you and Jock can have the Bren, and Donington can stay ashore. He can have a Lanchester.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer my Lee Enfield, sir,’ said the lance-corporal politely. ‘It might have a slower rate of fire but it’s a bloody sight more accurate when it comes to trying to hit anything over a couple of hundred yards.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Maygan. ‘Now let’s look at the chart and see if we can pick a good spot.’

  In the heat of the moment they had forgotten Angelika. She was sitting on a rock about a hundred yards from them, gazing out to sea, her chin cupped in her hands, the chart on her lap.

  ‘Shit,’ said Maygan. ‘What are we going to do with her?’

  ‘She can’t come with us,’ said Tiller immediately.

  ‘She’s safer ashore,’ Maygan agreed. Tiller walked over to her and asked Angelika for the chart.

  ‘
What’s happening?’ she asked.

  When Tiller explained the situation she agreed to stay hidden ashore provided she was given a pistol. Tiller shook his head. ‘You mustn’t resist if anything goes wrong. They won’t know you’re not a local.’

  She looked at him almost contemptuously. ‘They’ll find out if they want to. And they will want to.’

  Tiller hesitated.

  ‘I only want a pistol so that I can shoot myself,’ Angelika said fiercely. ‘Have you any idea what the Germans do to anyone they suspect of being an Andarte, as you call them? What do you think they would do if they caught me?’

  Tiller sank down on his haunches and looked into her face.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you mine if you want. But I’ll never forgive you if you use it.’

  For a moment she looked at him in puzzlement, and then she laughed. ‘You English. Such a funny sense of humour.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll hide,’ said Tiller. ‘If things go wrong make your way across the island to the observation hut. It’s here.’ He pointed to the chart. ‘They’ll look after you.’

  He took his Colt 9mm pistol out of its holster, extracted the clip of cartridges from the butt, and then showed her how the weapon worked before handing it to her. She weighed it in her hand and then snapped the clip of cartridges back into the butt and applied the safety-catch. From the way she did it Tiller knew she had handled a pistol before, and said so. But she just looked at him and smiled thinly, and said: ‘I’ll hide. I promise.’

  Maygan spread the chart on a rock and pointed to a small promontory just north of the port. ‘That looks perfect.’

  Donington looked over Maygan’s shoulder. ‘Looks fine to me,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll see you there, Sarge.’ He hoisted his rifle on to his shoulder, and set off.

  The promontory proved an ideal hiding-place for the caique, as there was an overhanging cliff with a tiny shelving beach inland of it. They put warps ashore, shrouded the caique in the camouflage netting, and then took up their firing positions.