by John Harris
The rest of the weapon followed and Bisset pulled for the shore, with Gully sitting in the stern and Cotton swimming alongside. Cleaning and pulling the gun through, they greased it like the Lewises; then, wrapping all three weapons round with shreds of clothing rescued from the forecastle, they stuffed them under the rocks in a hole Cotton had found, and covered them carefully. Cotton was in no doubt about what he was doing. His mind was clicking along precisely now, like a ship’s chronometer, ticking off each item as it occurred to him.
When they’d hidden the guns, he cleared the beach of footprints with a branch torn off one of the overhanging trees. As he finished, he found he was standing near the graves the Germans had dug. The papers the German sergeant had stuck on the stakes all read the same thing: ‘Ein unbekannter Englishche Matrose,’ a small gesture of respect from one fighting man to another.
He glanced to the north. The faint thud of guns which had died away during the night had started again. The high hilts seemed to muffle the sound but it was always there, insistent and menacing.
They were among the bushes in the stream bed, bending over Howard, when the girl returned. There were three men with her this time, the third one the same age as Petrakis, wearing black shabby clothes and tall boots and carrying with him the smell of an unwashed body. Cotton noticed that Petrakis was carrying a towel and the third man, whom he assumed was Xilouris, was leading a donkey laden with a folded rubber dinghy, encouraging it along with cricket-like noises made with the mouth. ‘Psoo! Psoo!’
‘Kalò ksiméroma,’ the girl said. ‘Good morning.’
‘Where’s the boat you promised?’ Cotton said immediately, his face full of suspicion.
She gestured towards the sea. ‘The Germans came to the village,’ she said. ‘They are commandeering boats. It was difficult.’
‘The kid’ll die if he doesn’t see a doctor.’
She knelt alongside Howard. He seemed to have recovered a little and managed to smile at her. ‘Hello, Mum,’ he said.
The girl lifted her face. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘They will come tomorrow. Please understand. They are willing to help. They will look after him in Ay Yithion.’
Cotton wasn’t so sure and his mind was full of nagging doubts. ‘What about the Germans if they find him?’ he said.
‘It’s a chance we must take. We are Christians and there is a doctor. They would never turn him away.’
Cotton searched his conscience. He’d heard of Germans deporting or even shooting people who hid British prisoners of war. He wasn’t sure that he had the right to ask. He stared at Howard. The boy’s face was grey and he knew they certainly couldn’t care for him themselves much longer. He nodded, still unwilling to push the responsibility on to someone else.
Petrakis interrupted. He had listened to the exchange with barely concealed irritation, as though a dreadfully hurt boy was no concern of his. He pointed towards the hill.
‘She will take you to the other boat,’ he said.
He seemed eager to be rid of them and Cotton frowned. ‘Aren’t you coming, too?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘The Germans’ll be back soon,’ Cotton said. ‘To pump out the tanks. They’ll be coming round by boat. We heard them say so.’ He looked at Howard. He felt dreadfully hampered by the wounded boy and for the first time he realised how it was that senior officers could take the decision to leave their injured behind. It had always seemed a cold-blooded thing to do but at that moment he knew just what prompted it.
For a moment they were at a loss what to do with the boy. The three Greeks hadn’t waited to see what decision they’d make and had already begun to head towards the beach. Cotton watched them, narrow-eyed and suspicious; then Bisset volunteered to stay behind with Howard while the rest of them went to inspect Loukia.
‘He’s all right here,’ he said. ‘He’s out of the sun and well away from the boat, and he won’t be seen if the Germans come.’
They seemed to have no choice and, leaving Bisset sitting under the overhang where Cotton had spent the night, they set off after the girl.
The cliffside was full of heather and thistles – all occupied by outsize hornets – saxe-blue flax, magenta covered with butterflies, and pink and white roses. Here and there were deep ravines, their bottoms filled with the carmine of oleanders, and among the shrubs yellow-throated bee-eaters and hoopoes moved. Over it all, the polished quality of the Grecian light seemed to make everything crystal clear, while the sea behind them shimmered like a peacock’s feathers.
The girl talked all the time they were climbing the cliff. She seemed in far better physical condition than Cotton and didn’t even pant.
‘This island is supposed to have been the home of Aeolus,’ she said. ‘He was the wind god. The one who brought all the breezes. He was supposed to have lived in a cave below the sea and stirred them all up and sent them out to cause storms.’
They were fairly high by this time, following a shallow ravine, and the sea looked a metallic blue, with leaden shades in the shadow of the cliff. The heat had not started yet, but it was still very warm scrambling up a muddy path that the previous night’s rain had made a stream bed, with stones and lips of rock underfoot.
After a while the girl looked at Cotton and stopped as something occurred to her.
‘You understand Greek very well,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you learn it?’
‘In London.’
‘At school?’
‘No. From a Greek family.’
She gave him a quick smile and for a second he realised just how attractive she could look when she wasn’t wearing her grave, preoccupied expression. But it faded quickly and she gave a little frown.
‘Greeks are very inquisitive,’ she said. ‘You have only to arrive in Greece and immediately someone questions you on your origins, family, work and why you have come. I think that’s why Greeks are so hospitable. They really only want to know about you.’
Cotton didn’t attempt to enlighten her about his background. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Where did you learn German?’
‘At school. We learned English also. We have never forgotten that your Lord Byron died for Greece. But we also learned German because Germany isn’t far away and we always had many German visitors. I worked in a hotel for a long time and I learned to speak it well.’
‘And now?’
‘I was visiting relatives on Spiridos for a holiday when the Germans invaded Yugoslavia. I set off home at once but when I reached here the ferries stopped because they had bombed the Piraeus. The harbour suffered terrible damage. The radio said the noise could be heard in Athens.’
‘And your parents and family?’
Her face showed no emotion, as if it had all long since been expended and her tears had dried. ‘We had a house close by the water,’ she said. ‘I managed to telephone my aunt and she told me they had all disappeared. She said there was nothing left. I think I will stay here.’
Cotton said nothing. He couldn’t even try to imagine what she was feeling. How did you offer sympathy to someone whose country was collapsing about their ears?
She paused, her eyes troubled. ‘I didn’t like the thought of German soldiers on Greek soil,’ she went on. ‘My cousin was the same. He was in Kalani. He went there because there was more work than in Crete.’
She seemed to be talking for the sake of talking and, when Cotton didn’t reply, she tried another tack.
‘Greece is the birthplace of democracy,’ she said. ‘And Greeks are all fighters. Alexander the Great was a Greek, and so was Leonidas the Spartan, who held off the Persians at Thermopylae.’ She gave a sad little smile. ‘Unfortunately, our forebears lived in a golden age and we have little left now of our greatness. But perhaps our past is useful. Chrysostomos thinks so. He was always in trouble with the police for his political views and he never got himself a job. I stay in Yithion and have started to do odd jobs for Dendras Varvara. H
e owns fishing boats and is very kind.’
Cotton glanced back. Petrakis and the other Greeks were launching the rubber dinghy. ‘Is your cousin a Communist?’ he asked.
‘He’s always been anti-Fascist. There’s no harm in that.’
Cotton frowned. ‘So long as he’s fighting the Germans, not me,’ he said. ‘Are all Greeks Communists like your cousin?’
She laughed. ‘You should see them at church listening to the blessed Eucharist! You can’t believe in Christ and in Communism as well. The fishermen are very devout. They are so much at the mercy of the Lord as they go about their business. Why?’
‘We need their help,’ Cotton said. ‘I’m going to get one of these boats off the beach and take her away. You could come too, if you wanted.’ He was offering a bribe in the hope that it would encourage her to drum up assistance. ‘Anybody else as well. Perhaps those people the Germans might imprison.’
They stopped on the ridge at the top of the cliffs. From there the sea looked as dead as a pane of frosted glass, but the wide green valley inland came into view, perfect, full of a thousand greens and with the sort of blue sky above it you saw nowhere except in the Mediterranean. As they set off down the other side they could see even to the north shore of the island, the blur of grey that was Kalani, and a scattering of houses to the west which was a village. As they descended further, they passed dog roses, poplars, ilex, and cacti, and a few wild figs. Then, as they turned, they saw a promontory and beyond it, just below them, another group of white houses.
‘That’s Yithion,’ the girl said. ‘The fishermen have all been to see what they can salvage from the boat. But there’s nothing left now and Chrysostomos has claimed it.’
‘Are they afraid of Chrysostomos?’
She shrugged. ‘He has guns. You saw them.’
‘What does he intend to do with it?’
‘The same as you, I think. Repair it and escape from the Germans.’
‘Then why won’t he help us so we can all escape together?’
She gave a sad, disillusioned smile. ‘Perhaps because you are not a Communist. He is very stubborn. Giorgiou Xilouris arrived from Antipalia some days ago. I think he is a Communist too, and they keep their help only for people who believe as they do. They’re planning to take the boat away together.’
Five
As Major Baldamus studied the intelligence reports that dropped on his desk, things began to become more clear. Ever since he’d arrived on Aeos he’d been wondering what his purpose there was, because he didn’t imagine for a minute that the High Command was taking over the island for no special reason and they’d certainly not occupied the other islands in the immediate vicinity.
But then, as promised, General Ritsicz had fed reports to him from Belgrade and, as he read them, daylight began to dawn, because they all referred to Crete, further south, a bigger island than Aeos, occupied by the British. As he compared them with the reports on the way the airstrip at Yanitsa was being developed and expanded, the whole thing began to fit together.
The Junkers were arriving regularly now, bringing spare parts, fuel, men, typewriters, papers, weapons. In addition, there was the Messerschmitt flight to be maintained, to say nothing of all the men Baldamus had brought with him, a few others who had arrived since and a group of experts concerned with logistics, packing and routing. The Junkers came from the Italian airfields in Albania, flying out in a wide sweep and arriving from the west so as to avoid the British fighters. So far there had been no accidents and the build-up had gone well, with everything camouflaged so that no wandering RAF Blenheim from a Greek airfield would be likely to spot anything more than the normal vehicles which had always been on the airstrip and the two wrecked private Desoutters and the wheel-less Rapide which were all that had remained of the strip’s pre-war importance.
The British had shown no interest, but that of course was undoubtedly because they were preoccupied with what was happening in the plain of Salonika. They already had their hands full and, according to the reports from General Ritsicz, even on Crete, which had been under occupation for six months now, little had been done to defend the place, chiefly on the mistaken assumption that Britain’s command of the sea would make it impossible for any invasion to be sustained.
‘Prime Minister Churchill,’ the reports stated, ‘has urged that the island be turned into a fortress bristling with everything from tanks to road blocks and defended by armed natives as well as British and Commonwealth troops. He believes this to have been done.’
Baldamus turned to the sheet which gave the exact lay-out of what actually had been done. It didn’t seem to be much. The suggested defences had not been constructed and none of the essential reconnaissance of terrain that the Wehrmacht was so good at had been undertaken. Nor, it seemed, was there any clear Intelligence understanding about German intentions, and it seemed quite obvious that the British commanders did not believe that any great build-up could be made by the Wehrmacht so soon after the final conquest of Greece itself. They also seemed to have no idea how they might confirm their beliefs, and there were only 3500 Greek troops on the island, with only one rifle between six men and three rounds of ammunition each.
‘Existing airstrips have not been mined,’ the report continued flatly, ‘and proposals to build hidden airstrips in the hills have not been carried out. In spite of the plentiful supply of Italian prisoners of war who could be used for the work, landing stages have not been constructed on the south shore nor roads to link the south of the island to the north.’
And since – as Baldamus knew from his pre-war wanderings on Crete – the only decent road ran along the north coast where the main towns were situated, with that road and those towns within reach of German bombers from the Greek mainland and the British forced to land troops on the south side of the ridge of mountains which formed the spine of the island, it was going to be damned difficult for them. Supply ships from Egypt, which would have to circle the islands, would be in danger throughout the whole trip and the subsequent unloading.
‘There are good reasons for them to hold on to the island, however,’ the report went on. ‘The triangle of naval bases it forms with Alexandria and Benghazi gives the Royal Navy a grip on the Eastern Mediterranean such as it has not previously enjoyed and it is firmly expected that the British will fight for the place. They will not dare to give it up; yet, because they will not be able to reinforce it, we have an opportunity here to wipe out a large portion of their Mediterranean forces and weaken them in North Africa to leave the route open to the East. All of this should be aided by the fact that there are hardly any tanks and a fatal lack of radio and telegraphic equipment.’
Baldamus drew a deep breath and read on. ‘It is believed that any approach would be unopposed and that air cover has been – or will be – withdrawn. Weapons will be landed separately. The Royal Navy is watching to the north, but a sound plan has been devised and details have been worked out, which must at all costs be kept secret.’
Baldamus put the report down and sat back in his chair staring into infinity. His role and the role of Aeos were suddenly quite clear to him and he could expect the tempo to increase from now on. The only danger he could see was the possibility of a leakage of information and for that he had to be on his guard.
He pressed a bell and Captain Ehrhardt appeared.
‘Ehrhardt,’ he said. ‘Have we given any thoughts to the coasts of this island?’
‘We’ve got a grip on Kalani.’
‘That’s not what I said. Kalani isn’t the coast, and there are at least two fishing villages in addition to Kalani.’
Ehrhardt looked puzzled and Baldamus tried to explain without telling him too much.
‘You ever wondered why we’re here, Ehrhardt?’ he asked.
‘To occupy the place?’
‘But why? There must be a reason. Haven’t you wondered what it is?’ Clearly Ehrhardt, a normal, unthinking soldier who did what he was told, didn’t questio
n it any more than he sought the wider pattern of strategy, and Baldamus went on cheerfully. ‘There is a reason,’ he pointed out. ‘And we’re part of it. And since we are part of it, it’s just possible that, unlike you, a few of the natives have been putting two and two together and making guesses. They’re probably all the wrong guesses, but somebody might just hit on the right one, and, without telling you what I think is our role in the pattern of strategy, it does seem that if any of them escaped – and we must remember they have boats – they might be able to tell the British enough for their Intelligence to make a few inspired guesses. We have to protect our coastline, Ehrhardt.’
Ehrhardt waited. He was well used to Baldamus’ long-winded lectures. He considered Baldamus a self-satisfied young man but the lectures did no one any harm and they kept Baldamus in a good temper.
‘We’ll need some sort of temporary marine craft, Ehrhardt.’
‘We’ll be lucky,’ Ehrhardt said. ‘Only the Italians and the British have armed boats in the Mediterranean.’
‘There are such things as caiques,’ Baldamus said. ‘Kalani harbour’s full of them. Can’t we mount machine-guns on a couple of them and have them circle the island?’
Ehrhardt agreed unwillingly and Baldamus smiled. ‘Better see to it then,’ he said. ‘They could be useful. Perhaps even easier and safer for us to get to the south of the island than wheeled vehicles. After all, some time soon, some idiot’s bound to try taking a pot-shot at us with a fowling-piece. We’d be harder to hit if we went by sea.’ He lit a cigar and puffed at it for a moment. ‘That sergeant you sent down there might even have enjoyed such a trip. Did he find anything, by the way?’
‘Only bodies and bits of equipment. He thinks the others escaped by sea.’
‘Just as well.’ Baldamus nodded, satisfied. ‘We wouldn’t want the British having men on the island who might find out what’s going on, would we?’
As the party from Claudia began to scramble down the lower slopes of the hills to Xiloparissia Bay, a German aeroplane went over and they all crouched among the rocks and froze.
