Corporal Cotton's Little War

by John Harris

  The young engineer-lieutenant who was in command of the launch appeared and Baldamus indicated the headland. ‘Is this the best place for us?’ he asked.

  The lieutenant peered towards the land. ‘If anything leaves the island we’ll be right across its path,’ he replied.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be worth poking our nose into the bay to see if they’re still there?’

  The lieutenant shook his head. ‘It would be dark before we got there.’

  ‘Haven’t you a searchlight?’

  ‘Perhaps they’ve got one too, and I wouldn’t want to be caught where we couldn’t manoeuvre. I gather they’ve got a 20-millimetre cannon.’

  ‘Couldn’t they slip past in the dark?’

  The lieutenant shrugged. ‘I’m not Kriegsmarine,’ he said. ‘I’m just an engineer-lieutenant who used to own a boat of his own at Rostock. I’ve not been trained to fight sea battles. Mind’ – he grinned – ‘with the gun we’ve got, I think we could stop anything that came near us.’ He pointed towards the two caiques laying off his starboard quarter, fifty yards away and twenty yards apart, one slightly astern of the other. Like the launch, they were at anchor, bows to the breeze coming off the land.

  ‘We’re covering quite a bit of sea,’ he pointed out. ‘At the first sound of an engine, we can fix our searchlights on the entrance to the bay. We have the advantage. We’re facing the way they’ll come and, with the wind as it is, we’ll hear their engines start.’

  As they spoke, the radio cheeped again and a moment later the signaller appeared with the reply to Baldamus’ message. It made him smile.

  ‘Fernbrugge accompanied by twenty-four special service men. No signal yet but one of Fernbrugge’s vehicles since seen alongside deserted farmhouse on south side of Kalani plain. No sign of crew or of Fernbrugge. Special service vehicle shot up. Suspect trouble he found bad – repeat bad – trouble. Investigating unit now moving on Xiloparissia Bay.’

  Baldamus screwed up the paper. It seemed that Untersturmbannführer Fernbrugge had made rather a mess of things and probably got himself killed into the bargain, and he couldn’t find it in himself to be very sorry.

  He studied the two caiques on their starboard quarter. In the last of the light he could see the men crowding the deck and smoking, and the last faint gleam of light on the barrels of the machine-guns mounted on stands on the sterns.

  ‘So long as they don’t get in each other’s way and shoot each other or us,’ he observed cheerfully, ‘we should be able to assemble quite a lot of firepower. It turns out to be rather fortunate for us that they’ve assembled here.’

  And particularly fortunate for Major Renatus von Boenigke Baldamus, he decided. His plans for the future – especially with Untersturmbannführer Fernbrugge safely out of the way with his unpleasant friends and his suspicions of Baldamus’ inefficiency – might still come to excellent fruition.

  He stared towards the land and the dark patch that marked the entrance to Xiloparissia Bay. ‘They’ll appear after dark,’ he said. ‘I think Ehrhardt’s people will be flushing them out like rabbits from a burrow any time now.’

  While Major Baldamus was studying the land with a satisfied eye, Corporal Cotton was studying the sea, staring from the shelter of Xiloparissia Bay with a great deal of concern.

  He glanced at his watch, then back at the sea. It had darkened suddenly and there was a hint of mist so that he felt they might creep out quietly and lay under the shadow of Cape Kastamanitsa.

  ‘We’ll go in a quarter of an hour,’ he said to Bisset who was leaning against the wheelhouse, staring at the entrance to the bay. ‘Did you notice the German launch?’

  ‘As I came over the top,’ Bisset said. ‘She’s off the point with the two caiques. Think she’ll see us as we come out? We couldn’t risk that.’

  ‘She’ll have the light behind her.’ Cotton had spotted something that had escaped the notice of Major Baldamus and the engineer-lieutenant on the German launch. They’d stationed the launch so far offshore it was beyond the shadow of the land, while under the loom of the cliffs it was already growing dark. Taking advantage of the light was the oldest naval trick in the world and Cotton had listened to enough naval lore to be well aware of it. The Germans had had the advantage of it at both Coronel and Jutland, firing at British ships with the evening glow behind them while they themselves were protected by a darker horizon and the loom of low cloud. Cotton had the shadow of the cliffs.

  ‘We’ll be all right,’ he said confidently.

  ‘What about the engines? Won’t they hear ’em start up? They make a row like the last trump.’

  Cotton had been studying the belt of mist forming close to the shore, willing it to thicken so that it would hide them, and it was a moment or two before he became aware of Bisset’s question. Starting up was something that had been worrying him too, but the thudding of the gunfire had grown louder now, as though the British ships engaged in the evacuation to the north were being heavily pursued to sea by the Luftwaffe, and he hoped it might drown the noise of the engines.

  He stared up at the ridge of hills again. There was no sign of Annoula, and his heart sank and his stomach felt empty as he turned towards the wheelhouse.

  ‘Tell the Greeks we’re leaving, Kitcat,’ he said. ‘And tell them women to pray with all their Greek Orthodox faith that we’ll make it. Then stand by the forrard rope.’

  As Kitcat disappeared into the wheelhouse, Cotton stared round him, assessing the light. The brightness had gone from the sea now. If they could only get out of the bay without being seen, they might easily lay under the shadow of the cliffs until total darkness. He gave a final glance towards the ridge of the hill. There was no sign of anyone and he sighed.

  The heavy rumble of guns came again, and he heard the loose glass in the wheelhouse give a vibrating rattle that seemed particularly loud. Then, over the rumbling, he realised he could hear aeroplane engines growing closer and, in the distance, the vanished sun glinting on the underside of their wings as they circled, he saw a flight of five machines. They were the same big three-engined Junkers they’d seen before, and they were turning in a wide arc out to sea to come over the hills to land on the strip at Yanitsa, dropping lower all the time as they lined up into the wind.

  ‘Stand by!’ he yelled.

  The five transports came lower. The noise of the engines grew louder and Cotton peered upwards through the trees, wondering if Loukia could be seen. The aeroplanes were low in the sky as he hurried back to the wheelhouse.

  ‘Start up,’ he said.

  Docherty disappeared and Cotton held his breath. For a long time nothing happened and he heard Docherty swearing.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ he prayed, ‘let ’em start!’

  The aeroplanes were almost directly overhead as the starboard engine exploded into life. Normally it could have been heard in Ay Yithion but, with the roaring of fifteen engines above them, it sounded as if the big Packards had become mute. The second engine came to life a moment or two later and Cotton felt Loukia surge against the springs. The aeroplanes had passed overhead now and moved out of sight beyond the hills. Almost immediately it seemed as if the sound was cut off by a knife. The boat’s engines had settled down now to a low poppling sound that was muffled by the intervening cliffs and the thudding of the guns.

  ‘You’ve got ten minutes,’ Bisset warned, looking at his watch. ‘I shouldn’t leave it any longer.’

  ‘Stand by!’

  ‘Hold it!’ Kitcat’s voice came thinly through the low rumble of the exhausts. ‘Somebody’s coming! Down the hill there! It’s the dame!’

  Cotton’s heart leapt and his head turned. Barely discernible against the purple shadow of the hillside, he could see her yellow shirt. She was waving and her mouth was opening and shutting, but he couldn’t hear her voice because of the engines.

  Docherty’s head appeared. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Wait! We’ve got another passenger.’

&n
bsp; ‘If we wait much longer, they’ll be German passengers.’

  The girl had reached the beach now and was crossing it in a stumbling run. As she began to climb among the rocks and into the trees, even in the growing darkness Cotton could see that the yellow shirt was torn from her shoulder and that there was a livid bruise down the side of her face. Her knees and hands were dirty and as she stumbled between the rocks he jumped ashore to swing her to the deck. She fell limply against him as he lifted her aboard, and he saw that her lips were swollen and there was blood along her hairline.

  ‘What happened?’ he said. ‘Was it the Germans?’

  ‘No!’ Her voice was an incoherent gasp. ‘It was Chrysostomos! He sold a watch in the village to buy wine. He said it was his and the owner of the bar gave it to me and said that, as Chrysostomos was escaping, perhaps he would need it and should have it back.’

  She pulled a man’s wrist watch from the pocket of her skirt and showed it to Cotton in a muddy palm. ‘It has English words on the back,’ she said. ‘Chrysostomos couldn’t read them and neither could the priest. But I could.’

  Cotton struck a match. ‘To Lt-Cdr Samways,’ he read. ‘From MTB 19.’

  Immediately a great many things that were already in line clicked into place: Petrakis’ interest in Claudia. The weapons he’d always been able to replace when he’d lost them. The fact that they were British, and that he smoked British cigarettes. The fact that the Germans had apparently murdered Samways and his men but had failed to remove Claudia’s cargo; that they’d behaved with reasonable reverence to the bodies on the beach at Kharasso but had killed the men at Xiloparissia. It stuck out in clear blinding light. Petrakis had known all along about the bullion Loukia was carrying because Xilouris came from Antipalia and had probably even been part of the organisation that was due to receive it, and they’d murdered Samways and his men in the expectation of finding it. They’d failed only because Samways had taken the precaution of hiding it before he was surprised.

  Annoula was still sobbing incoherently. ‘It was Chrysostomos who told the Germans the Varvaras had the petrol,’ she was saying. ‘It was the petrol they’d pumped from the boat. It was because Varvara told about the guns in the cave. He wanted his revenge on them – and on you. It was Chrysostomos, Chrysostomos!’

  She spat the name out as though she couldn’t stand the taste of it on her tongue. ‘He’s evil,’ she sobbed. ‘He was always evil. I couldn’t believe that he could be so evil.’

  They were all staring at her crouching against Cotton’s chest. Gully stood on the stern about to haul in the spring, and Docherty had his head out of the engine room, indignant like the rest. Bisset was further aft near the well deck and Kitcat was by the winch holding the bow rope, wet and heavy from being in the water.

  ‘Cotton!’

  Bisset’s quiet voice brought their heads up and, as he turned, Cotton saw that Petrakis had appeared in the dusk from the wheelhouse and that he had a revolver in his hand. Xilouris pushed through behind him with Cesarides. They also held revolvers which had clearly been hidden beneath the blankets they’d worn.

  Petrakis pointed his weapon at Cotton and said something in Greek. Annoula clung more tightly to him.

  ‘He won’t put you ashore,’ Cotton said.

  ‘He doesn’t want to! He wants me to move! He wants to shoot you!’

  Petrakis spoke again but the girl only clung tighter.

  ‘Shoot me,’ she screamed. ‘Shoot me! Leave him alone!’

  Cesarides jumped forward and, as he grabbed her arm to swing her violently aside, Petrakis lifted the revolver and Cotton found himself staring down the muzzle. The hole in the end looked as big as the six-inch guns on Caernarvon.

  The Greek’s fingers tightened on the trigger and Cotton had decided he’d no more than seconds left to live when Kitcat’s arm swung suddenly and the bow rope he was holding, soaked with water and heavy as lead, hit the Cretan across the face. As he yelled in pain, Cotton leapt forward. The girl, just scrambling to her feet, went flying again as Cotton kicked out and sent the revolver spinning through the air. As Petrakis reeled away, Cotton saw he had a knife in his fist but Kitcat, sweeping up the tommy-gun he’d laid down, lifted it to his waist and pulled the trigger. The burst hit Petrakis in the chest and lifted him clean off the deck to drop him with a splash into the sea alongside the boat. Xilouris, yelling with fright, was cut down by a second burst and slithered across the deck to fall half-through the broken window of the wheelhouse. The boy, Cesarides, flung his hands in the air at once and dropped to his knees, yelling for mercy, but Varvara’s crewman, Papaboukas, stepped up behind him and, grabbing his hair to wrench his head back, slit his throat with a single stroke of his knife. The wheezy gurgle and splutter as his cries died sent a shiver down their hacks. Coldly, Papaboukas wiped the knife on the body and pushed it away from him into the water.

  Annoula, her face buried in her hands, was huddled on the deck. Cotton drew a deep breath. Then, dragging Xilouris’ body clear, he pushed at it with his foot so that it rolled over the side to splash into the bay after the other two.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Bisset said quietly. ‘We’ve seen some bloody butchery today.’

  ‘We’ve also buggered up the whole operation,’ Cotton said in a flat voice. ‘Because those bloody Germans waiting on that launch outside must have heard the shooting.’

  Eight

  They had.

  The engineer-lieutenant had been standing by the door of the wheelhouse staring towards the entrance to Xiloparissia Bay, and his head jerked up as he heard the sound of the tommy-gun.

  Baldamus was alongside him in a second. He had been sitting in the captain’s cabin listening to Goebbels’ radio trumpeting the triumph in Greece. The crackle of fire from ashore had wrenched him savagely from a sense of euphoric satisfaction and he had leapt for the deck, leaving the door swinging on its hinges, its ringed handle clinking as it slammed against the stop.

  ‘What’s that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Machine-gun.’

  ‘Where?’

  The engineer-lieutenant pointed towards Xiloparissia Bay.

  ‘Ehrhardt’s men must have arrived.’ Baldamus smiled in the growing darkness. ‘He’s either stopped them or he’s driving them out to sea. We’d better keep a sharp look-out.’

  As the lieutenant went inside the lighted wheelhouse, Baldamus glanced at the clock. Everything seemed to have hung together very neatly. Where Fernbrugge and his precious black-coated friends had failed, the operation initiated by himself had succeeded. He followed the lieutenant inside the wheelhouse and, lighting a cigarette, sat down to wait.

  Inside Xiloparissia Bay, Loukia’s engines were still rumbling and they were all staring at Cotton as he lifted the girl to her feet. She clung to him, sobbing.

  ‘They saw me leaving Ay Yithion,’ she choked. ‘They took me into the bushes and beat me. They they – Xilouris–’ She gave a whimpering moan, her fingers digging into Cotton’s arm, kneading the flesh in her distress. ‘And he let them! He let them! Chrysostomos let them! He watched and he was – he was laughing.’

  She gave a great gulping hiccupping sob. ‘I knew while they were doing it, what he’d done. I remembered when he first went to look for the boat that he said to Cesarides, “We couldn’t find it.” I thought then he meant the boat but he meant money. They wanted it. They told me today. It’s hidden on the hillside somewhere.’

  ‘We’ve got it aboard,’ Cotton reassured her. ‘They must have seen us and they were intending to take over the boat somehow.’

  She continued to cling to him, choking on her sobs and holding his hand against her cheek, as trusting as a child as he tried inadequately to comfort her.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  ‘Cotton–’

  It was Bisset’s voice and, as Cotton turned, he nodded silently towards the sea. It was practically dark now and Cotton realised at once that if they didn’t l
eave now they might never find their way out of the bay.

  Young Varvara’s wife and the two other women had appeared on deck, wondering what had happened, and Cotton gestured to them to take Annoula below. They prised her from him and helped her through the wheelhouse, still sobbing, their voices soft and concerned, their eyes big and dark and sad.

  ‘Okay,’ Cotton said. ‘Let’s go.’

  They moved to their places, Kitcat on the bow, Gully by the stern, Docherty in the engine room.

  As the ropes splashed into the water, the boat went ahead gently against the forward spring so that the stern came out.

  ‘Let go spring!’

  As Kitcat let the spring slip free, Cotton put the telegraphs to astern and the boat began to edge gently away from the shadows of the trees in a tight circle to the centre of the bay, Cotton’s eyes always on the shallow water over the submerged rock he’d found. As the boat slowed, he thrust the telegraphs from neutral to ahead.

  Varvara, one of his brothers, and Papaboukas had reappeared in the wheelhouse and stood waiting quietly behind Cotton. There was a blue-grey haze beyond the black opening to the bay, hiding the lift of waves and rocks at the entrance. The slaty depths glistened with a strange sort of incandescence. Shoving the throttles to slow ahead, Cotton felt the propellers bite and, standing in the charred wheelhouse, he stared into the shadows. The stars were not bright yet and there was no moon, so that the mouth of the bay and the rim of the surf were barely discernible.

  The entrance was narrow and he peered through the broken window for half-submerged rocks.

  ‘There!’ Kitcat pointed and Cotton edged the bows to star-board. A second rock appeared, like a pale shadow in the blackness. Then they were edging through the entrance to the bay into the long deep swell and the low-lying mist that flattened the scent of the sea and the smell of wild thyme from ashore.

  ‘What about the German launch?’ Kitcat said.