There was some nodding and Andreas translated for some of his fellow Greeks before the instructor pointed to a tall, fair-haired Englishman.
‘Mr Moss, sir. If you’d help me out. Over here, in the middle.’
The student smiled eagerly and stepped forward as the instructor continued. ‘Mr Moss is about the size of a jerry. They tend to be big bastards but they fall just as easily as any other man. The trick of it is to take ’em down quickly and violently like so.’
He stepped up behind Moss, snapped one arm round his neck. ‘There are three movements to the basic kill. The first is to choke off any cries from your victim, like this. Then pull ’im back, using your ’ip to brace the victim, so.’ Moss’s back arched as he struggled for breath in the powerful grip of the instructor. ‘The third movement is to bring up your knife under his ribs.’ He punched his fist into the soft flesh under the Englishman’s sternum, causing Moss to gasp. ‘Stick the blade in hard and work it about so you carve up ’is ’eart. Now it will take a moment for ’im to bleed out and the more damage you do, the quicker it’ll be over. Then you can lower him to the ground, nice and gentle, so he don’t make a sound.’ He guided Moss on to the mat, held him there a moment longer as he looked up at the rest of the class. ‘One thing. Make sure your jerry or your eyetie ’as actually croaked. If not, he might yet give off a warning. And then, lads, your goose is cooked.’
He released his grip and helped the Englishman up. Moss struggled to recover his breath. ‘Thank you, Mr Moss.’
The young officer returned to his place, rubbing his neck, while the instructor placed his hands on his hips. At the same time Andreas took the knife from his neighbour to examine it. He could see that the long, sharp blade would do plenty of damage inside a man’s chest, while the rubber handle would provide a secure grip. It was clearly designed to kill and for no other purpose.
‘Of course, it is best if there are two men for the job. One to deal with the man, the other to catch ’is weapon as it falls. A poorly set safety catch can cause a weapon to be discharged. Even the sound of it hitting the ground might be sufficient to alert the enemy. So, if possible, use two men. Nah then, pair off and practise the technique on each other, and then later on we’ll have a look at slitting throats and scrambling brains with the blade before we break for lunch.’
After they had mastered the knife skills, they were passed on to another instructor who trained them to shoot handguns and demonstrated how to break down a weapon and conceal the parts in such a way that they would be missed in a casual body search. Unlike the pistol training that Andreas had experienced at the naval academy, the teacher at Narkover, a former member of the Shangai police force who had been used to fighting the ruthless gangs of that city, showed them to fire in bursts of two shots from a crouched position. He taught them to shoot aggressively, firing instinctively, without wasting time to settle into a formal position and take aim.
Once they had mastered pistols, the instructor turned to larger weapons, the Sten, Bren and the Marlin, a sub-machine gun that had a foregrip like a Tommy gun but with a double magazine as opposed to the round one that Andreas had seen in the subtitled gangster movies in Athens. Over several days they were taught to strip the weapons, conceal them, reassemble them, and then again blindfolded. They fired them in the school’s range, becoming used to their individual quirks. Andreas became familiar with the rattle of the Stens and the deeper bark of the Marlins and Bren guns. The students were also introduced to silenced weapons in the strange atmosphere of shooting on the range when the usual din was replaced by the sharp hissing noise of the single shots that had to be fired when using the device on a Sten.
Having mastered conventional weapons, the students were then trained in unarmed combat with the same ruthless intent: kill and win at any cost, by any means. At first Andreas was unsettled by the emphasis on targeting his opponent’s eyes, testicles and windpipe, and the manifest ways in which an incapacitated enemy could be swiftly and silently finished off. But he quickly came to accept the necessity of it – even the virtue of it – in a war that was being fought in the face of the brutal forces of a dark ideology that threatened to extinguish every human value that he cherished. There was no doubt in his mind. The enemy had proved themselves to be malignant and it was hard to conceive of any evil that they had not yet committed.
The long hours of training and study demanded of the students made the days pass quickly. The instructors moved on to teaching them the intricacies of using explosives. RDX was the type favoured by the Special Operations Executive because it was stable and easily mouldable and therefore easy to hide and use. Andreas soon grew adept at setting charges and selecting the correct coloured fuse sticks for the desired delay before detonating the explosives. He also learned how to set booby traps and lay small charges just large enough to puncture the tyre of a vehicle driving over the device. The wider applications of sabotage were also covered: how to introduce grit in to the fuel tank of vehicles so that they would grind to a halt hours later. How to render machinery useless and difficult, if not impossible, to repair. Then they were trained to operate radios and learn the correct procedures for their use. Messages were to contain no more than six hundred characters in code and transmissions were to last no more than five minutes in order to defeat the attempts of the enemy to trace the signal back to the transmitter. It was also important to regularly move the radio set from one hiding place to another for the same reason.
Despite the long days, there was still time at the end of the day to relax in the school’s mess. Andreas joined the other Greeks to drink the local wine and raki and talk and sing late into the night when they would become sentimental about their homeland and their families and all would join in to sing ‘When will the sky grow clear’ before the evening ended with them trudging off to their beds. Not all evenings were so harmonious. Some of the Greeks from the mainland were inclined to voice their contempt for the king and his ministers who had abandoned their people rather than remain in Greece and lead them against the fascists. These were the same Greeks who had opposed General Metaxas in the years when he had ruled the country with an iron fist and Andreas felt sympathy for the grievances of the National Liberation Front, the communist party, to which they belonged. However, there were other Greeks at the school who supported the rival National Republican Greek League, a more authoritarian political party dedicated to right-wing policies. When the discussion occasionally turned to politics the Greeks divided along party lines and the exchanges became bitter and soured the mood in the mess.
On one such night Andreas was approached by the tall officer who had been used to demonstrate the killing of an enemy sentry. They had spoken on many occasions and got drunk together, and an easy going friendship had been established. William Moss exemplified the kind of Englishmen who were accepted for the SOE: uncomfortable with authority, energetic and the sort who would do anything to avoid a dull life.
‘I say, what’s the problem with your chaps tonight?’ Moss said quietly as he nodded towards the furious altercation taking place on the other side of the mess. Andreas had been too fatigued by the day’s training to join his comrades and was drinking by himself at a corner table. Moss shook his head as he continued. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d swear they were about to wring each other’s necks.’
‘It may yet come to that,’ Andreas replied wearily. ‘From what I understand, the Liberation Front have wide support back in Greece. They’ll not take kindly to the restoration of the government in exile when we’ve driven the fascists out.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Moss raised his whisky glass. ‘When, not if. Though I shouldn’t be too concerned about the Liberation Front if I were you. I don’t give much for their chances of wielding any influence when the game’s over.’
Andreas frowned. ‘Oh? Why is that?’
‘Churchill hates the left. Always has. During the General Strike back in twenty-six, he wanted to order the troops to shoot down
the trade unionists. And before that, he was behind sending our forces into Russia to fight the Bolsheviks. Don’t think for a moment that he would be happy to hand Greece over to the Liberation Front when the war is over. He’ll be content to support them against the enemy for now, but that will change the moment the Germans and the Italians are on the back foot. Still, that’s not an issue that need concern us, eh?’
‘It will concern me, my friend.’ Andreas smiled.
Moss pursed his lips. ‘That rather depends on whether you survive or not. Do you think it’s healthy to look to the future? In our line of work I am not so sure.’
Andreas regarded him with a surprised expression. ‘Surely you fight for a purpose?’
‘Of course. I trust that we will win one day. I just don’t expect to be there to join in the celebrations, that’s all. If a man worries about surviving then there is a danger that it takes the edge off his fighting ability. Don’t you think? Better that he resigns himself to death so he can devote his attention to the task immediately in front of him. That’s how I see it.’ He knocked back his whisky and turned to the barman to raise his glass and indicate he needed a refill. Turning to Andreas, he shrugged. ‘We live outside history, my friend. There is no future for us and therefore we need not think about the past. Only the present matters. It is all we can expect to have.’
Andreas shook his head. ‘Your philosophy is not for me. I have plenty I want to live for.’
‘You have a girl waiting for you, is that why you want to survive?’ Moss’s eyes twinkled and he clicked his fingers. ‘I knew it. Poor fellow. That will be quite a burden for you.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Andreas responded firmly.
‘Be realistic, my dear chap. War is a dangerous enterprise at the best of times. But what we are engaged in is the most dangerous of all duties. Why, there are myriad ways in which we can die. Even if we leave the enemy out we could be killed in training, during infiltration, from sickness, or untreated wounds. And if we survive that lot the other side will be doing their best to shoot us. If we are taken prisoner the only thing we can expect is to be tortured and then put up against a wall and shot. If we’re lucky we might get a chance to put a bullet in our heads, or take poison, before we are captured. So, you’ll pardon me if I don’t share your expectation that we will survive the war. That girl of yours? I’d forget her. Forget she ever existed. Otherwise she’ll only be a distraction and get between you and your duty.’ As the mess steward refilled his glass, Moss leaned forward and clapped Andreas on the shoulder. ‘So, eat, drink and be merry, as the saying goes! Especially when you see what’s coming in a couple of days. Parachute training. If ever there was a test of a chap’s nerve, it has to be hurling himself out of an aircraft with a bloody silk sheet and handful of ropes standing between him and eternity. Cheers!’
Chapter Twenty
The interior of the Wellington shook and lurched as it clawed its way into the night sky over Palestine. The sound of the straining engines was a constant roar in the ears of the men sitting on the benches either side of the fuselage, close enough for their knees to touch every time the bomber shuddered. Aside from the parachute instructor and a dispatcher, the other eight men were all agents in training, dressed in padded jumpsuits and strapped into their parachute harnesses. Each man had a small kitbag on the bench beside him, containing essential equipment for the escape and evasion exercise. A pale blue light barely illuminated those around Andreas and he was grateful that they could make out as little of his expression as he could of theirs.
He was terrified at the prospect of what was to come. Even though the parachute course was rushed, he had not felt much trepidation at leaping off the twelve-foot-high stage to learn how to roll on landing. Nor stepping off the training tower in the craned harness to simulate the last sixty feet of a drop. The first real jump, from a tethered balloon at a thousand feet, had been an almost serene experience. The basket had lifted gently off the ground and risen steadily into the sky before the tethered cable eased it to a stop. When his turn had come, Andreas had stepped up to the exit and let himself fall out as soon as the instructor had given him the command to jump. There was a brief sensation of uncontrolled speed before the static line pulled the parachute open and he felt a powerful jerk as the canopy rippled out above him. As he looked down at the landscape spread out below him, and the tiny upturned faces of those watching from the training field, he could not help laughing for joy at the thrill of the experience. The moment passed briefly enough as the ground came rushing up towards him and he just remembered to bend his knees in time to take the force of the impact. It drove the wind from his lungs and he lay gasping until an instructor rushed over and bellowed at him to get on his feet and bundle his parachute.
There had been two daylight jumps from planes before this final exercise, which was intended to be as close as possible to the experience of a real drop into enemy-held territory. They had been briefed in the afternoon that they were to be dropped somewhere within a thirty-mile radius of the school and had to find their way back inside the grounds without being picked up by any of the patrols that had been sent out to search for them. They had until the following night to return. After that they would be deemed to have failed and would have to repeat the exercise. The idea of jumping into the night, over unfamiliar terrain, had played on Andreas’s nerves over the intervening hours as he prepared his kit and was driven out to the airfield to wait for the order to board the Wellington.
Opposite him sat Bill Moss, arms folded across his chest as he whistled to himself. For a moment Andreas stared at him, jealous of his languid air, then he smiled as he realised the Englishman would never be able to hear the tune he was whistling above the roar of the engines and that it was simply a facade, an attempt to look unconcerned by the imminent danger they all faced. Glancing round, Andreas could see that the others were either looking intently serious or feigning calm as well. For some reason it made him feel more confident.
The note of the engine began to ease as the bomber reached its cruising height and continued on a level course for another half-hour before the pilot eased the throttles back and the red light blinked on inside the fuselage, bathing the passengers in a lurid glow. The dispatcher bent over the hatch in the floor, unfastened it and lowered it towards the rear of the plane. The slipstream roared beneath the opening and Andreas gave an involuntary tremor as he saw the dark void beyond.
‘UP!’ the instructor yelled, gesturing clearly with his hand.
The recruits struggled to their feet and shuffled into line, carrying their equipment bags in their left hands and their static lines in their right.
‘HOOK UP!’ The instructor reached his hand up to the steel cable running along the roof of the fuselage and curled his fingers. Andreas attached the metal clip to the cable and tugged it to make sure it was secure. There was only one man ahead of him and Moss directly behind. The line edged forwards and then the first man lowered himself so that he was sitting on the edge of the hatch, legs dangling through the hole where they were buffeted by the air roaring past. There was a brief delay and then the red light went out, to be replaced by a green glow from the lamp on the bulkead.
‘GO!’ barked the instructor.
The first agent released his equipment bag and heaved himself forward, instantly disappearing. His static line went taut an instant later. Andreas dropped down and lowered his legs, flinching at the cold blast of air. He released his bag and folded his arms across his chest as he fell into the night. It had happened so quickly he was not aware of it, and had no time to exalt at his newfound courage before the harness jolted him severely as if he had been shaken in the fist of a giant. The air whistled through the cords of the parachute and the roar of the bomber’s engines quickly diminished as it flew on. Below, to the right, Andreas could make out the dull hemisphere of the first parachutist, drifting towards the dark ground. There was a crescent moon providing just enough illumination to pick out the deta
ils of the landscape below. Remembering his training, Andreas looked for recognisable features that he could relate to the map of the drop zone the agents had been shown during the briefing. But by moonlight it bore little resemblance to the map and Andreas knew he had little time to get his bearings. Frantically he looked round at the hills surrounding the drop zone. Then he caught the silvery glint of water off to the left and felt relief surge through his heart as he recognised it as the reservoir supplying a large kibbutz.
The ground was coming up fast now and he could see where he was to land and muttered a curse as he saw a small cluster of trees directly beneath. Below, his kitbag swung lazily and then crashed through the topmost branches. Gritting his teeth and bending his knees, Andreas followed it in, feeling twigs and small branches splintering under him as he crashed through the tree. Then he hit a more solid branch, twisted to one side and fell through towards the ground. He braced himself for the impact but his harness brought him up sharply as the cords and parachute collapsed over the tree.
He hung there for an instant gasping for breath and scared witless. Then he remembered his training and fumbled for the harness release and let himself drop to the ground. The kitbag had fallen the other side of a branch and Andreas unclipped it and let it hit the ground before he stepped out from under the tree and looked round. The last four of his comrades were still descending but would land hundreds of metres away. Closer to, he saw a figure who had landed in the open hurriedly bundling his chute up before scurrying to a nearby outcrop of rocks to conceal it. Andreas hissed a curse as he looked up. He grasped a fold of his chute and pulled. It shifted a short distance before snagging and he swore again under his breath before he took out his knife to start cutting it free.
Hearts of Stone Page 22
