Blood of Honour sjt-3

by James Holland

  ‘Certainly there’s no point trying to catch them in the mountains,’ said Schulz.

  ‘So flush them out, and fight them on our terms, not theirs,’ said Bräuer.

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst. At the moment the Cretans have no experience of this. They will be surprised by our arrival in force and, I suspect, less guarded than they might be once word of such reprisals spreads. I want to use this first action to make sure we land a big fish.’

  Bräuer nodded approvingly. ‘Very sensible. I wish you luck, Oberleutnant Balthasar.’

  ‘There is one other thing, Herr Oberst,’ said Balthasar.

  Bräuer raised an eyebrow. Yes?

  ‘We seem to have some vehicles at last – I noticed a number of British trucks in the town as I made my way over here.’

  Bräuer smiled. ‘And you were thinking some transport would be very useful for conducting these operations?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst. The villages are some miles away and surprise is of the essence. The quicker we can get in and out again, the better.’

  ‘He has a point, Herr Oberst,’ said Schulz.

  ‘All right, Balthasar. Let me see what I can arrange.’

  Balthasar thanked him, saluted and left. He had had no intention of carrying out such an operation in the heat of the day, and in any case, there had been other matters to attend to, not least the integration of replacement troops into his company and the setting up of a camp. This he had established a couple of kilometres to the south-west of the town in a lush valley of vines, olives and citrus. Tents had been pitched in a lemon grove, the air smelling sweetly of fruit and wild grasses, not rotting corpses and effluent. There was a rocky spur to their left that jutted out into the valley on which an ideal observation post could be established, while on the far side, a track climbed out of the valley and led to the mountain village of Krousonas, the heart of the guerrillas’ fiefdom. Another OP was established there.

  In the early afternoon, Balthasar clambered up to the OP already set up on the outcrop. The men were building a stone sangar, an MG already in position with a wide arc of fire covering the entire valley to the south and the approaches to the camp. He now had more than seventy men – men who were rested, fed and flush with victory. Here, in this undeniably beautiful valley of shimmering green, he hoped he might lure his enemy. At first glance, their canvas camp, which was now emerging between the olives, looked vulnerable yet it held well-armed and highly trained soldiers, covered by strong observation posts. If any guerrillas tried to attack, Balthasar and his men would be ready.

  ‘Good,’ he said, to his men at the OP. He drank from his water bottle then passed it to his men. All were glistening with sweat. He whisked away a fly and noticed a small black scorpion emerge from the disturbed rocks. Carefully, and deliberately, he raised his boot over it and drove down his heel.

  ‘And that is what we will do to the Cretans, Herr Oberleutnant,’ grinned one of his men.

  ‘Precisely,’ Balthasar replied.

  Soon after, three trucks arrived, delivered at Oberst Bräuer’s behest, two towing light 3.7cm anti-tank guns. The trucks were British, open-cab and open-back Morris Commercials, painted dusty desert yellow. Ten men could get into the back, two up front, and at a push a couple more standing and clinging to the bar behind the cab. Balthasar was delighted. They gave him speed and firepower, for they could carry more ammunition with them.

  They left a little after six that evening, two under-strength platoons, fewer than forty men in all, driving off down the dirt road that wound its way gradually out of the valley and began climbing into the lower slopes of the mountains. They passed a couple of carts, forcing them off the road, and drove on, until up ahead they saw Krousonas nestling in the flanks of the mountain, a tight collection of white houses, bright against the green and grey hues of the land around. However, it was not to Krousonas that Balthasar meant to go that evening but Sarhos.

  They reached a small village, Kitharida. A child scuttled across the road, women watched them sullenly, and as they passed a bar, an old man shook his fist. Balthasar ignored them and, once through the village, felt a throb of excitement. They were nearing their destination now. Sarhos, he knew, was a cul-de-sac, a dead-end village, with only paths leading out at the far end. At a fork in the road, they turned left, and half a kilometre further on the first houses came into view. The rear vehicle stopped, men quickly jumping out, while the other two pulled up at the centre of the village beside the bar and a stone’s throw from the tiny white Coptic church.

  Immediately his men set to work, boots and rifle butts kicking on doors. The bar was cleared, old men, children and women roughly pushed out.

  ‘Out! Out!’ shouted the men, adhering to Balthasar’s first rule of acting both loudly and aggressively. Balthasar watched, his hands gripped around his MP40. There was a mixture of expressions on the villagers’ faces: fear, defiance, anger; a young girl was crying, her mother trying to calm her. The men herded them down the road to the church. One middle-aged man who tried to slip away and run was chased. A short burst of sub-machine-gun fire followed, a woman screamed, and the soldiers returned.

  As a show of force, the anti-tank guns were unhooked and pointed towards the church. Machine-guns were slung over shoulders, rifles and sub-machine-guns tightly gripped. The rounding-up did not take long, for Sarhos was not a big place. In no time, the village had been emptied, the population huddled in the cool, dark church. It was there that Balthasar went while his men lit their torches – long staves wrapped with cloth at one end and dipped in oil – and set fire to barns, stores, even houses.

  ‘Kristannos,’ he called out. ‘Who here is called Kristannos?’ Anxious faces looked at each other and feet shuffled. A low murmur arose.

  ‘Silence!’ called Balthasar, then turned to his Greek interpreter. ‘Tell them anyone from the family Kristannos is to step forward. Immediately.’

  The interpreter did so. A pause, then movement among the frightened throng. Balthasar saw an old, bearded man shuffle forward, then a thin, elderly woman. The mother, perhaps? Then two younger women pushed through, one he guessed about thirty, a small boy in her arms, the other some years younger. A wife, son and sister, he guessed. Surely.

  It was the woman he supposed to be Alopex’s sister who spoke, her face proud and defiant. And pretty, Balthasar thought. Yes, definitely pretty.

  ‘She is Alexis Kristannos,’ said the interpreter. ‘The women with her are her mother and sister-in-law, the boy her nephew, the man her uncle.’

  ‘Where are the rest of them?’

  ‘Her brother was captured in Greece with the rest of the Cretan Division,’ the interpreter repeated back. ‘Her father is dead.’

  ‘What about her older brother, Giorgis?’

  ‘He is not in the village at the moment. He is away.’

  Balthasar smiled. ‘Good. You,’ he said sharply, pointing to Alexis, ‘and you,’ clicking his fingers at Alopex’s wife and son, ‘your names?’

  ‘I am Alexis Kristannos,’ said Alexis, ‘and this is my sister-in-law, Nerita Kristannos, and her son Alexandros.’

  ‘Come with me.’ He watched them glance back, saw the mother clasp her hands together in prayer, then his men were pushing them, so that Alopex’s wife stumbled and her son began to cry. A murmur from the villagers rose into cries as the church door was opened and they heard and smelt the burning.

  As they emerged into the narrow road around the church, the doors were slammed and bolted. Nerita gasped, her hands to her face. The village was on fire. Alexis began shouting, hurling abuse at the Germans, and at Balthasar. She tried to claw him, but was restrained, her arms held back by one of his men.

  Balthasar slapped her face, then ordered them to his truck where the women and boy were bundled into the back, the weapons of the paratroopers trained on them.

  Balthasar ordered the Pak gun to be fired at the bar, three rounds that blasted holes through the wall and set the spirits on fire. More flame
s now erupted from a house overlooking the stream, angrily licking out through the windows. Thick, curling smoke rose into the sky, blocking out the mountains above them.

  ‘Right,’ said Balthasar, ‘time to go.’ The guns were hitched back on, men clambered and jumped back onto the vehicles and, turning, they sped away. From his seat in the cab, Balthasar listened to Nerita Kristannos’s wails, but he was unmoved by her fear and grief. Alopex’s village was burning and Balthasar had his wife, son and sister. The operation had gone perfectly to plan.

  It was dusk up in the mountains. The sun had set behind Mount Ida, the largest peak in the range, and the sky above was darkening, the first stars beginning to twinkle. At last the heat had simmered down, replaced by cool evening air – air that now smelt delicious. From the mouth of the cave, the scent of roasting mutton and woodsmoke wafted sweetly over the rocky crag where Tanner and Sykes were sitting. They had found a small oak and beneath it a large smooth rock. From where they sat, they could look back down the gorge, at the interlocking spurs of jutting rock, and out to a narrow view of the valleys below and the distant ridge beyond.

  ‘My stomach’s rumbling something terrible,’ said Sykes. ‘D’you think they’ll let us have any of it?’

  Tanner scratched his chin. ‘An extra sixteen mouths to feed is a lot. I won’t be getting some at any rate, not if Alopex has anything to do with it.’

  ‘You don’t think it might be a good idea to make it up with him? After all, he is one of the gaffers round here. It didn’t matter pissing him off before because we were in charge, but now that’s changed. We need his help.’

  ‘Stan, you’re missing the point.’ Tanner sighed. ‘I stood up to him because he insulted us, not because we were running the show on this island.’ He picked up a stick and threw it. ‘I’m damned if I’m going to back down. Anyway, I reckon it’s all bluster. We’ve both had our chances to kill each other and neither of us has taken it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Sykes. He sounded doubtful.

  ‘I’ll give him one thing, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He’s got a lovely sister. I reckon I’m quite smitten.’ They laughed, and Tanner took out two cigarettes, lit them and passed one to Sykes. ‘Feels very safe up here, doesn’t it?’

  Sykes nodded slowly as he drew on his smoke. ‘I wonder how far the others have got?’ They had heard that afternoon that the Italians had landed in the east of the island a few days earlier; it would make navigating safely that much more difficult.

  ‘I suppose it depends on whether they managed to get any oil. But, Jesus, Stan, that boat didn’t exactly give a man confidence, did it? All the way to Alex with a cracked cylinder head? Maybe, but you wouldn’t put good money on it, would you?’

  ‘No. We made the right decision. I hope we did, at any rate.’ He looked out at the mountain peaks rising around them. ‘Feels a bloody long way from home, up here, though, doesn’t it?’

  Tanner drew his battle blouse around him, still stained with dried sea salt. ‘I like it. Christ, where’s home anyway?’

  Footsteps behind them made Tanner turn. He had assumed it would be one of the men, but it was Alopex, with two of his andartes, one of whom had been with them all the way from Limenas. It was the same man who had scowled at Tanner earlier in the village.

  Tanner eyed them, but remained sitting. ‘What do you want?’

  Alopex drew level with him. ‘You son of a whore,’ he growled. ‘Is it not enough that you insult me in my town and in front of my men? But now you would shame my sister!’

  Tanner still did not budge, instead looking up at Alopex with apparent indifference. ‘We talked, that’s all. She’s a beautiful girl – a credit to your family.’

  Alopex leaped at Tanner, surprising him and knocking him back so that his head cracked against the rough, knotted trunk of the tree. The shock, combined with the stab of acute pain, momentarily stunned him, and he now felt a stinging blow to his face. ‘Stop!’ Sykes was saying. ‘Just stop!’ but Alopex had landed another crunching blow. Tanner saw Sykes yank Alopex backwards so that the Cretan’s next punch flailed uselessly at the air. He pushed Sykes backwards so that he toppled, but in that moment, Tanner was able to raise a leg and kick Alopex away. The big Cretan staggered, but managed to remain upright on the loose rocky ground. Tanner now sprang to his feet, anger and adrenalin giving him strength. A couple of steps forward, fists raised, then a short, sharp jab that caught Alopex on the side of his chin. The Cretan staggered again, regained his footing, and charged at Tanner with such weight and force that he could only land his second punch on Alopex’s back as he was rammed into the tree, an old branch stump stabbing his side, so that he gasped with pain and because the breath had been knocked from his lungs. Another punch, this time to the stomach, and Tanner doubled up. He was losing this fight, he knew. He caught a glimpse of Sykes getting to his feet, but Alopex’s andartes were hurrying over the rocks ready to hold him back; this was not Sykes’s fight – Tanner knew he had to face Alopex alone. He grimaced, stabs of pain coursing through his entire body, and a blow fell like a slab of iron on the side of his face, beside his right eye, then another caught his jaw. His vision was blurring but he knew he had to do something fast.

  Bringing his arms tight around his face, he ducked and swayed, then lashed out with his leg, catching Alopex’s knee, and as the Cretan tried to recover his footing, Tanner gave two quick jabs, catching his enemy on each eye. As Alopex ducked his head away from more blows, Tanner kicked his boot fiercely into the other man’s groin.

  It was now the Cretan’s turn to gasp and double up. He stumbled backwards, nearly lost his footing again, but then recovered his balance. Tanner stayed back, unsure of the ground, his breathing heavy and laboured, blood streaming down his face and feeling his strength ebb as pain shuttled through his body.

  ‘Why are you fighting?’ he heard Sykes say.

  ‘Keep out of this, Stan,’ Tanner gasped.

  ‘Because this dog insulted me in front of my men,’ Alopex snarled, ‘and now he insults my sister!’

  ‘But you insulted me first,’ Tanner retorted. He coughed, then thought he might retch.

  ‘Stop it, please,’ said Sykes. ‘You two are allies. Fight Germans, not each other.’

  ‘You are not fighting the Germans,’ growled Alopex. ‘You are trying to run away.’

  ‘Stop bloody saying that!’ said Tanner. He took several darting steps forward and, before Alopex could defend himself, landed three quick jabs, followed by a right hook. ‘I’m not running from anyone, least of all those Nazi bastards!’ The Cretan swayed, fell back a step, then reached to his side and pulled out his knife, the steel glinting in the failing light. Tanner stepped back several paces, then pulled out his seventeen-inch sword bayonet. Crouching, feeling for a position of balance on the loose rock, he waited.

  Alopex shook his head. Blood was running from a wound over his eye and he dabbed at it with his sleeve. He dummy-lunged, making Tanner flinch backwards. Without taking his eye off Alopex, he squatted and picked up a small, jagged rock, deftly switched his bayonet into his left hand, and held the rock, ready to throw. He would hurl it at his head, but even if he missed, Alopex would have to duck and that would give him the chance to strike.

  But from behind Alopex’s shoulder, a Cretan boy was now running along the mountain track up which they had climbed earlier, calling. The andartes behind Alopex began talking urgently to each other and at the same time Tanner heard men approaching from the direction of the cave. He barely dared glance at the boy, but now Alopex’s men were beside him, jabbering and deliberately coming between the Cretan and Tanner.

  ‘What?’ snarled Tanner. ‘What’s going on?’ He saw Alopex lower his knife.

  ‘We are finished here,’ the kapitan muttered, ‘for now.’ He dabbed at his eye again, then put his knife away. Tanner lowered his bayonet, dropped the rock he was clasping and put his hand to his head, reaching to the tree for support
. Alopex and his men pushed past, scrambled over the rocks and went back towards the cave.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Sykes said. ‘I’m sorry – I couldn’t help you much.’

  ‘You got him off me to start with. Bastard might really have killed me if it weren’t for that.’ He breathed out heavily. ‘Bloody hell. That hurt.’ He sheathed his bayonet and slumped to the ground.

  ‘I wonder what the fuss is about,’ said Sykes, looking towards the cave.

  ‘Christ knows,’ said Tanner. ‘But I need a beadie.’ He felt for his cigarettes, took one out and lit it.

  Suddenly they heard a guttural roar of pain and anguish from the cave.

  ‘That don’t sound good,’ said Sykes.

  Tanner eased himself back to his feet, gasping with pain as he did so. ‘No, Stan. Come on, we’d better see what’s going on.’

  Clambering back round the rocky spur to the cave, pain shooting through Tanner with every step, they saw Alopex clutching his head, rocking back and forth, then striding away from the others, his face turned to the sky. Alarm now struck Tanner. Alexis, he thought. He hoped it was not so.

  ‘Christ, what happened to you?’ said Peploe, as he and Vaughan hurried over.

  ‘Nothing, sir. What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s bad, I’m afraid,’ said Vaughan. ‘The Germans have torched Sarhos and taken away Alopex’s wife, son and sister.’

  Tanner clutched his head. ‘Let me think,’ he said, to himself as much as to anyone else. He drew on his cigarette, then flicked the butt away. ‘Did they take anyone else or only those three?’

  ‘Only those three. The rest they left locked in the church.’

  ‘Then they’ll be safe,’ he said. ‘They’re trying to get Alopex out of the mountains. Let me talk to him.’ He turned, but Peploe caught him by his shoulder.

  ‘Jack, wait.’ Tanner stopped and faced him. ‘You and Alopex – you’ve just been fighting again?’

  Tanner nodded. ‘He came at me, sir. I’ve been trying to keep out of his way.’