Corporal Cotton's Little War

by John Harris

  The light was increasing as Cotton returned on deck, and the day was spreading from the sea in long pale fingers into the heavens like violet ink rising through the veins of a tulip. Then he realised that above the rumble of artillery to the north he could also hear the low thud of an engine.

  Terrified that they’d been caught, he dived below and got the others moving. They were still struggling to get Howard out of the captain’s cabin when a caique nosed round the headland. Standing on the bow was a small figure that was quite clearly Annoula Akoumianakis. Cotton climbed to the deck, Docherty just behind him, and as the others joined them another caique appeared. They were small vessels – one brilliant red, the other a blistering blue – sloop-rigged, low-waisted, with clipper bows and rounded sterns. There were fishing nets on the deck and they were both low in the water.

  As they edged between the rocks and nosed slowly towards Claudia, he saw there were several men on board, apparently led by the captain of the electric-blue vessel. The girl was waving, proud of herself, and, as she gave Cotton a special smile, he found he was pleased to see her and glad she’d forgotten the dislike she’d felt for him the previous day.

  ‘This is Dendras Varvara,’ she said, indicating the captain of the blue caique, a stout, elderly man in a striped jersey. She pointed to a grave-faced, shock-haired young man on the other boat. ‘This is Athanasios, his son. They have come to help. They will take your wounded man to Ay Yithion.’

  Cotton grinned, delighted and relieved at this first sign of friendliness.

  ‘Thank you, Kapetáne,’ he said.

  The old man spoke a harsh unfamiliar Greek that was hard to understand at first. ‘She is a good child, this one,’ he said, slapping the girl’s behind. ‘May she prosper.’ He nodded towards the wrecked Claudia. ‘That is a sad sight, my son.’

  He offered a bottle of raki which they passed round. ‘Eviva,’ Varvara said. ‘One should always start the day with a drink.’

  His son was watching the sea. He seemed nervous. ‘We came early,’ he said. ‘Before the Germans are out.’

  ‘What Germans?’ Cotton asked.

  ‘Two boats from Kalani have been armed,’ the young man said. ‘They are going to patrol the coast.’

  ‘E-boats?’

  ‘No.’ The older Varvara shook his head. ‘Just caiques. Fast caiques. You’ll need to post a look-out.’

  He turned to one of his crew, a boy no more than fourteen with ragged trousers and shirt, and pointed to the end of the promontory.

  ‘He’ll keep watch,’ he said as the boy climbed ashore. ‘They start their patrol today. If they come, we drop everything and head out to sea. We’re fishing, if they ask. No one’s said we mustn’t – only that we have to report.’

  They didn’t waste any more time. The two boats, their diesel engines thumping and filling the air with fumes, edged nearer. Docherty unwillingly stripped off his clothes and, as he stood in a ragged pair of underpants, they began to festoon him with the diving equipment – the helmet and goggles, the counterlung and absorbent canister and the gas cylinders. He gave them a nervous grin as he adjusted the canvas straps between his legs.

  ‘I hope nothing goes wrong,’ he said, ‘or I’ll be no bloody good to the birds.’

  ‘Can you work it?’ Cotton asked.

  ‘I think so. Christ, I hope so! I don’t fancy floating head downwards under water.’

  They attached the lead weights to the harness and he thrust his feet into the heavy boots.

  ‘I’ll come down and help you,’ Cotton offered.

  ‘How you going to breathe?’

  ‘I’ve got lungs.’

  They had already attached a heaving line to one of the blades of the propeller and, as Bisset manoeuvred the dinghy against the stern of Claudia, Docherty hung a pair of pliers, a heavy spanner and a hammer round his neck with lengths of fishing line, and began to march into the water. When it was up to his chest, he hesitated so that Cotton began to wonder if he was going to be able to do it, then he waved and vanished abruptly beneath Claudia’s stern. When he emerged, the water streaming from his hair, he held a split pin in his fingers. He seemed excited suddenly. ‘Hang on to that,’ he said. ‘We ain’t got any spares. Now for the nut.’

  Knowing there would be little he could do later when the real work started, Cotton borrowed a spanner from Varvara and, lungs bursting, head throbbing, watched Docherty working underwater at the nut until he had to surface.

  ‘I think it’s moving,’ he said.

  Eventually, his fingers cut, his shoulders scraped and bleeding, Docherty came up with the castellated nut in his hand. He handed it to Bisset and reached for a hammer.

  ‘Now for the prop,’ he said. ‘I’ll need a hand. We’ve not got to lose the key.’

  Cotton was about to follow Docherty again when he felt a hand on his arm. Old Varvara was holding a length of rubber tubing.

  ‘One end in the mouth,’ he said. ‘The other above water. With cotton waste in the nostrils you can breathe.’

  Cotton smiled and, attaching one end of the pipe to a cork float from the caique, he put the other in his mouth and went down after Docherty. Between them, they began to attack the propeller. Gasping and spluttering, Cotton shot to the surface with it already moving. Docherty followed.

  ‘One more go,’ he said.

  This time the propeller moved more quickly than they’d expected and Cotton saw it drop away through the shining water. The heaving line Docherty had attached to it jerked taut and, just before he burst to the surface, gasping, Cotton saw the propeller swinging gently on the end of it just above the sea bed.

  Docherty appeared alongside him, grinning. ‘I got the key,’ he gasped. ‘Haul her in.’

  Bisset heaved the big bronze propeller into the dinghy, and they stared at it eagerly, indifferent in their excitement to the kink in one of the blades. Docherty’s new enthusiasm was infectious, and he stared red-eyed at Cotton and Kitcat and grinned.

  The younger Varvara was looking at his watch now and his father was staring out towards the sea. As they did so, the boy they’d posted on the headland whistled and pointed.

  ‘The Germans!’ the old man said.

  Bundling everything into the dinghy, they pulled it ashore and carried it up the beach to the trees. The caiques were already under way and, as they passed the rocks in the entrance to the bay, the crews started throwing nets over the side. From the slope above the boat, Cotton watched carefully through the trees. Annoula was beside him, pressed close against him by Bisset who was crouching on the other side of her. Her body was soft and warm against Cotton and, as he turned to look at her, he saw her eyes flicker away, as if she’d been studying his face.

  As they watched, they heard the thump of an engine and a moment later, the two big caiques appeared round the point. They were fast-looking boats, each with a small wheelhouse aft and a stern-mounted machine-gun. They stopped alongside the Varvaras’ boats and they could hear the shouts across the water. Old Varvara offered a bottle, and they saw one of the Germans studying Claudia with a pair of binoculars. But they seemed satisfied that she was a complete wreck and eventually they chugged off again.

  The blue caique came slowly into the harbour once more.

  ‘They said they’d try and tow her off when it’s all over,’ Varvara said, as he casually tossed a line over Claudia’s stern cleat and cut the engine.

  ‘When what’s all over?’

  ‘They didn’t say. They seemed very security conscious. I expect they’ve got something unpleasant up their sleeves.’ Varvara frowned. ‘It goes badly on the mainland,’ he went on. ‘Yugoslavia surrendered yesterday and the German wireless said the British intend to leave Greece.’

  The news, the first they’d heard since they’d arrived, was depressing to say the least. Evacuation was bad enough but an unsuccessful evacuation was worse.

  ‘What about us?’ Cotton asked.

  Varvara laughed. ‘They think you were p
icked up. They thought there must have been two launches.’ He gestured. ‘Now we will take your injured man. It is much better this way than carrying him up the cliffs.’

  By the time they’d transferred Howard’s stretcher to the blue caique, the boy who had acted as look-out had climbed down to the boat.

  ‘We shall keep him aboard until evening,’ Varvara said as Cotton took a last look at the wounded man. ‘He’s safe with us.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am,’ Cotton said and the old man held up his hand.

  ‘You do not need to. It is balm to my soul to hear our beautiful language in the mouth of a foreigner. You speak it well. There are not many English who speak Greek.’

  As he climbed back aboard the caique, he passed across canvas, nails, screws, oakum, grease and tallow. ‘You will need these,’ he said. He reached into the wheelhouse and produced a basket of fruit, rock bread, onions and dried fish. Candles, a lantern, a tin of paraffin and a rubber-covered torch followed, and finally he grinned and dug out a bottle which he tossed to Cotton.

  ‘Raki,’ he ended. ‘Doubtless it will be of use.’

  Putting the engine astern, he waved and chugged out of the bay to join his son before they both thumped off slowly round the headland.

  Cotton stood watching them for a minute or two, unbelievably thankful to have got rid of the responsibility for Howard. The morning was already full of heat and the air seemed full of gold, with the sparkle of waves on rocks, and beyond that the blue-green haze of the sea. For a moment, his mind was full of thoughts. He turned to the girl.

  ‘Get the donkey,’ he said. ‘We’ll start moving over to Xiloparissia Bay straight away.’

  Nine

  As they climbed the ridge, struggling with the box of heavy diving equipment, they all carried rifles except Bisset and Kitcat, who carried the two tommy-guns they now possessed. The day had become sultry and heavy with a watery, lemon-coloured sun pushing through a thin layer of cloud. The mud had dried and in the gulleys it was stifling enough to make them sweat.

  It was no surprise, as they crossed the ridge and began to descend into Xiloparissia Bay, to see figures on the deck of Loukia. The girl recognised the red shirt of the man by the wheelhouse at once.

  ‘That’s Chrysostomos,’ she said.

  They crossed the beach in the shallows as Annoula had shown them and stopped in front of the boat. Petrakis appeared from the wheelhouse.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

  ‘We’ve come to take over.’

  Petrakis scowled. ‘It is our boat,’ he pointed out.

  ‘It belongs to the Royal Navy,’ Cotton said. ‘We’re going to salvage it.’

  The Greek gestured. ‘The laws of salvage are well known; especially in Greece which is one of the great maritime nations of the world. It is our boat. We moored it to the trees.’

  Cotton looked up at the Greek, unafraid and calm. ‘Salvage doesn’t apply to naval vessels in wartime. This is a naval vessel.’ He wasn’t sure he was right but it seemed like a good guess and he thought his bluff might work.

  Xilouris and Cesarides appeared on deck. They were carrying rifles once more and Cotton noticed that, as before, they were Lee Enfields.

  ‘We are keeping this boat,’ Xilouris said. ‘The first man who tries to climb aboard will be shot.’

  The three Greeks were standing on Loukia’s bows, staring down at the group on the beach, their backs to the trees. There was no question but that they held the whip-hand. They could hold off Cotton’s party as long as they chose.

  Petrakis appeared to be well aware of his advantage and was grinning. ‘I think this time, Englishman, that you will have to concede defeat,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Cotton’s voice was infuriatingly cheerful. ‘Don’t look round now, but just behind you there are two tommy-guns and they’re both aimed at your backs.’

  ‘Sure are!’ The voice was Kitcat’s and it came from the trees. Petrakis’ head turned slowly and Kitcat waved at him from the rocks among the foliage. The Greek’s face reddened with anger but he climbed sullenly over the side of the boat, followed by the other two, and dropped to the beach. As they straightened up, Petrakis stared at Annoula and spat. The spittle landed on her shoulder and, her face tragic, she brushed it off without a word. Then, as he passed, he swung his arm and she went reeling away, her black hair lifting like a dark wave, to fall to her knees in a scattering of sand. Cotton’s fist came up at once and Petrakis sprawled on his back alongside her. As Xilouris lifted his rifle, Docherty jammed the muzzle of his weapon under his nose.

  ‘Leave it, you bastard!’ he roared.

  Cotton stooped over Petrakis and, picking up the Greek’s weapon, flung it from him.

  ‘Disarm ’em,’ he said.

  Xilouris and Cesarides handed over their weapons without arguing, and Cotton jabbed at Petrakis with his rifle. ‘Get up,’ he said and, as the Cretan climbed to his feet, Cotton jabbed him again in the ribs.

  ‘From now on,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a sentry here all the time. If you come back, you’re likely to be shot.’

  As the Cretan marched away across the sand, followed by the other two, Cotton glared after him angrily, his mind in a turmoil. It was a bit confusing having to look out for both Germans and Greeks, he decided. The bloody Greeks were supposed to be on our side, weren’t they? This sort of situation didn’t seem to be within the scope of a mere corporal of Marines.

  The girl was watching him, tears in her eyes.

  ‘You must forgive him,’ she said. ‘He’s an unhappy man.’

  ‘I’m not so happy myself.’

  ‘He’s uncertain what the future holds.’

  Cotton turned and stared at her. ‘So am I,’ he barked. ‘By God, I am!’

  He dropped his burden on the sand and started unloading the donkey. Bisset was studying the shell-smashed mast and the stays and halyards draped about the deck.

  ‘Never mind that lot,’ Cotton said sharply. ‘Leave it. It makes her look more of a wreck and it’ll discourage Jerry from coming in and bothering with her. We’ll get rid of it at the last minute, and we’ve plenty else to do for the time being.’

  Bisset studied him for a second and Cotton thought he was going to be as awkward as Docherty. Then he smiled, nodded, and moved to help with the donkey.

  Cotton sighed. ‘Docherty,’ he said, ‘get cracking on the engine. We’ll fix the prop later. The rest of us’ll clear the beach so that if those German caiques arrive they’ll see nothing.’

  They carried everything they’d brought from Kharasso Bay under the trees and hid what they didn’t need among the rocks. Cotton noticed that nobody argued with him. ‘Gully can get stuck into the hull,’ he said. ‘The girl can keep a look-out for you.’

  She gave him a scared look and as he saw Docherty’s eyes flicker he changed his mind abruptly.

  ‘Perhaps on second thoughts,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll take her with me.’

  As the two of them set off back to Kharasso Bay with the donkey, they could hear Gully’s hammer already at work on the hull and the clink of tools from the engine room. The sun was high by this time and the afternoon was hot. The tinned meat they’d eaten had been a greasy mess as they’d turned it out of the tins, and Cotton was rapidly coming to the conclusion that what they were trying to do was mad. Up to now he’d never had to think for himself, because there’d always been the ship’s captain and the captain of Marines to do it for him, and it wasn’t patriotic fervour which drove him now, simply an instinctive belief that he shouldn’t stand idly by and let the Germans win the war.

  The girl was walking in silence alongside him, tense and unhappy. Cotton had a big man’s gentleness and with her quiet enigmatic face she was just one more of the things that worried him, something he was unable to understand in his frustration and anxiety.

  On the ridge of the hill they paused. Cotton could hear the mutterings of the guns and wondered if the Germans
had already bypassed the new British line and were heading down towards Athens. He’d once visited the Piraeus in Caernarvon just before the war. The locals had laid on a dance for the crew. The officers had gone to some swept-up affair but there’d also been beer and wine for the lesser mortals from the mess decks. The experience had left him with a warm affection for Greece – something quite apart from his ties of blood with the place – and it troubled him to think of jackbooted Germans stamping all over it, probably bullying his own aunt and cousins into the bargain. Then his mind was jerked back to the present with the sight of a small group of aeroplanes swinging in a wide arc over Cape Asigonia to the north. They began to drop lower and lower to land until eventually they disappeared from sight.

  What was happening on the mainland was a nightmare and the lack of news troubled him. It was obvious that the conquest of Greece would be followed in good time by an assault on Crete, and if the invasion of Crete were in the wind, it was not surprising that the Germans were too preoccupied to bother about salvaging Claudia. There’d be plenty of time for that when they’d consolidated themselves across the sea approaches to the mainland.

  There was no sign of life near Claudia and the three graves on the beach had sunk as the soil had settled under the rain that had fallen. They seemed smaller, somehow, and Cotton found it difficult to realise that one of them contained Patullo. He’d got to know Patullo so well, it was hard to believe he was dead.

  They loaded the two Lewises on the donkey and added anything else they thought it would carry.

  ‘It’ll die of heart failure,’ Cotton said.

  Annoula smiled. It was only a small smile but it pleased him to see it return. ‘Greek donkeys are very strong,’ she said. ‘And better that the donkey struggles than that the Germans find them.’ She paused. ‘They say in Yithion that they’ve collected all the big boats from Kalani.’