Blood of Honour

by James Holland

  Sitting on the rough floor, his hands over his knees and smoking a cigarette, he sighed. His head still throbbed, and when he touched it, he could feel the slowly congealing blood of a gash that needed a stitch or two. If and when he did get out, he would have to watch his back now that a Cretan big shot was out for his blood. He knew about the kind of blood feuds these people made. Indians, Arabs, Greeks – they were all the same. If you made a vow, you had to follow it through: it was a question of honour. Tanner understood that – after all, it had been partly as a matter of honour that he had stood up to Alopex himself. The other reason had been anger. It was anger that had driven him to start firing the pompom a couple of weeks earlier and it was anger that had driven him to fight Alopex. A lot of anger. Too much, he thought.

  And as if that wasn’t bad enough, now Guy Liddell had turned up. He would lay money on Liddell being Sykes’s new platoon commander. Jesus. Of all the people. Why the hell had he been sent here? Why wasn’t he farming still in Alvesdon? What was it with these fellows? Captain Peploe was the same – he could have been doing his bit on his family farm in north Yorkshire, away from all this. They could have avoided the fighting altogether. Tanner pushed back his hair and sighed again.

  There were voices outside – English voices – and then, through the narrow window, he heard the sound of a key being turned and the squeak of hinges. Moments later Alopex was muttering in a low voice.

  ‘You’re a hot-headed old fool, Alopex,’ said a voice. ‘I need you fighting Huns, not our chaps.’

  ‘He insulted me,’ said Alopex. ‘You think I can be humiliated like that in front of my men?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ soothed the English voice. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. There’s something I need you to do …’

  Tanner shook his head and lit yet another cigarette. Sykes had somehow managed to purloin a stash of Player’s Navy Cut from HMS Halberd and they had been smoking them ever since. God only knew how he had managed it; Tanner didn’t like to ask. So Alopex was working for the British, he thought. He smiled ruefully to himself – a man who disliked the British, but hated the Italians and Germans more. He wondered who that English voice had belonged to. Not regular army, that was for sure, but someone who could cut through tape, pull strings. A useful friend. Tanner drew deeply on his cigarette. Bloody hell, he thought, what a mess.

  He must have dropped off because when the key turned in his door, he jolted awake and felt momentarily disoriented.

  ‘Jack, Jack,’ said Captain Peploe. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Bastard deserved it, sir,’ muttered Tanner. ‘I wasn’t going to sit and listen to him bad-mouthing us and calling us cowards. It’s not our fault his sodding division was left in Greece.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have just turned the other cheek?’ Peploe stood over him, his round face as genial as ever. ‘Sykes and Woodman managed to.’

  ‘It’s a question of honour, sir.’

  ‘Come on, up you get.’ And as Tanner got to his feet, Peploe patted his shoulder and said, ‘You and your honour, Jack. Pride and a filthy temper more like. What is it with you at the moment? You’ve been a bear with a sore head for weeks. Even more sore now, I should think.’

  ‘It bloody hurts like hell, sir.’

  ‘Well? What’s the matter? What’s bitten you?’

  ‘I’m sick of us running away, sir. That Cretan was right. And if I was him, I’d probably feel the same way about us too.’

  ‘But you still felt it necessary to get into a street brawl?’

  Tanner sighed. ‘All right, maybe I did see red, but I’m not going to sit there listening to some Cretan wallah calling us cowards. Nor am I going to drink his drink when he’s taking a lot of good men’s names in vain – and men who died fighting for Greece.’

  ‘Sykes and Woodman walked away from it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I think a man should stick up for himself, and his mates.’ Even as he said it, he knew it sounded lame and petulant. Renewed anger and frustration swelled within him and he growled and kicked the wall with his boot.

  ‘Feeling better?’ said Peploe.

  Tanner said nothing for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said at last, ‘not for kicking that bastard – and, no matter what anyone says, I’d do it again – but for the trouble I’ve caused. I know everyone in the whole battalion will know about this, and it doesn’t reflect well on me or the company.’

  ‘More like the whole brigade.’ He eyed Tanner a moment. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Apart from the lack of guns, MT and almost no radios whatsoever, no, sir, I’m as happy as can be.’

  ‘But we’ve no shortage of troops and we’re dug in around strong defensive positions.’

  ‘I remember what happened in Norway when we didn’t have enough kit or enough aircraft. And look what happened in France. It was bloody chaos. No one knew what the hell was going on. A year on and we’re still depending on telephone lines and runners. When are we going to be given some sodding radios?’

  ‘There’s a big difference, Jack. Crete is an island. They can only get here by sea or by air. They’re not going to be able to bring over tanks and MT and heavy guns. We’ll be more than a match for them. This is different.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, sir,’ muttered Tanner. ‘Anyway, let them come. I’m fed up with waiting.’ He looked at Peploe. ‘Will I be court-martialled?’

  Peploe smiled. ‘No, Jack. I can’t say Vigar was overly impressed but he felt your humiliation through the town and a few hours in the glass-house were punishment enough in the circumstances. Had this been peacetime it might have been another matter.’

  ‘And the Cretan’s already been let out,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Yes – well, there was that too. Not really fair to keep you if he’s been let loose.’

  ‘An Englishman fetched him. I heard him.’

  ‘John Pendlebury,’ said Peploe. ‘He’s vice consul here, although he seems to be the chief of all these local Cretan kapitans. He’s recruited them to help fight any invasion.’

  Tanner nodded. I see.

  ‘Actually, it’s rather a thrill to meet him,’ added Peploe. ‘He’s quite a celebrated archaeologist. In fact, he was curator at Knossos before the war. I’ve been hoping to cross paths with him ever since we got here.’

  ‘You studied that, didn’t you, sir? At Cambridge?’

  ‘Archaeology and ancient history, yes. I still can’t believe I haven’t got out to the ruins, but there’s hardly been the time. Maybe in the next few days.’

  ‘If Jerry doesn’t come.’

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t. A bit of sightseeing first might be fun.’

  Tanner chuckled.

  ‘Hooray,’ said Peploe. ‘My CSM’s smiling again.’

  ‘Am I free to get back to our positions, then, sir?’

  ‘Not quite. There’s someone I need to introduce you to properly. Our new platoon commander, Mr Liddell. I think you probably owe him an apology too.’ He held out his arm and ushered Tanner into the bastion entranceway. ‘Come on, he’s still across the road at Battalion HQ.’

  Tanner squinted in the sudden brightness. It was warm still, the sun quite strong after the cool of his cell. Birds chirped in the trees along the street and a fly buzzed by his face. Perhaps it would be all right with Liddell. After all, it had been a long time. Tanner knew he had changed a great deal from the boy he had once been; his face was more lined, more battered. There was also a slightly broken nose where before there had been no blemish, and skin that was permanently the dark brown of a deep tan, where before he had been fresh-faced, with white skin and pink cheeks. Yes, he told himself. I am a different person now. There was no need to worry.

  ‘And you could do with seeing the doc before you head back up to the lines,’ Peploe was saying, as they crossed the road.

  In through the front door, a cool and light hallway, up some stone steps and then into a large, airy room on the first floor w
ith windows overlooking the Jesus Bastion. Outside, a tamarisk tree waved gently in the breeze, the shadows of the leaves and branches cast across the whitewashed wall opposite. At one end, a staff clerk was tapping at a typewriter, while at the other, sitting behind a makeshift desk, was the battalion commander, Colonel Vigar. In front, also seated, was Lieutenant Liddell who, on seeing Peploe, stood up.

  ‘Ah, Peploe, come in,’ said the colonel. ‘And you, CSM. Calmed down a bit?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My sincere apologies, sir,’ said Tanner, clicking to attention and saluting.

  ‘Can’t go around scrapping with the locals,’ said the colonel, ‘although from what I’ve heard it sounds as though he damn well deserved it.’

  ‘CSM Tanner was standing up for the honour of the regiment, sir,’ said Peploe. Liddell shifted his feet.

  Colonel Vigar smiled. ‘Well, maybe you’ve done us all a favour, Tanner. If we’ve got to fight alongside these Greek fellows, we don’t want them thinking we’re a pushover, eh?’ He glanced at Second Lieutenant Liddell. ‘Although you acted quite correctly, Liddell. Quite correctly.’ He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘So,’ he said, ‘let’s put this little episode behind us, shall we? We’ll pretend you two haven’t met yet and you can shake hands. Then we’ll pack you back off to our positions. As I was saying, Mr Liddell, Tanner here is one of our most decorated soldiers. A highly experienced man, a first-class soldier and someone who I’m sure will help you settle into the company.’ Vigar tapped a cigarette on the table, then popped it between his lips. ‘So, Mr Liddell, this is your CSM, Mr Tanner. Mr Tanner – Mr Liddell.’

  Tanner had consciously avoided looking directly at Liddell, but now, as the new subaltern turned and held out his hand, he faced him and saw his expression change.

  ‘You!’ said Liddell. ‘It’s you. I know this man, sir,’ he said, turning to the colonel and then to Peploe. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t notice before. Good God, you’re Jack Scard – Bill Scard’s son.’

  4

  Tuesday, 20 May. As normal, the Luftwaffe had made their morning call, albeit somewhat earlier than usual. This time, first Dorniers and then Junkers had pasted the coastal plain west of Suda Bay just after 6 a.m., others following at regular intervals until some time after seven. By half past, on the basis that the morning ‘hate’, as the raids were known, was over, the various men dug in along that stretch of the island were stood down, preparing themselves for another day of weapons cleaning and tanning themselves in the late-spring sun.

  For Captain Monty Woodhouse, however, the all-clear had been the signal for him to report back to General Freyberg and Creforce Headquarters on the rocky outcrop of Akrotiri, above Canea and Suda Bay. A British intelligence officer, Woodhouse had been visiting the Greek regiment dug in a few miles south-west of Canea and, grabbing his motorbike, had set off through the gradually settling dust, up along lush Prison Valley, thick with olive groves, tamarisk and fruit trees, through more Greek and New Zealand positions to the south of Galatas village, and then on through Canea, normally such a thriving, bustling port, but this morning still quiet – an occasional yap of a dog, the crowing of a cockerel – but curiously lacking the normal hubbub that was a feature of the island’s capital.

  A change of gear, and the motorbike was climbing out of the town and onto the rocky Akrotiri headland, weaving past cactus plants, more olives and rough farmsteads, until Woodhouse reached the general’s villa, typically Italianate and solid. It was a stone’s throw from the quarry in which Creforce was based, and no more than a few hundred yards from one of Crete’s most hallowed sites: the tomb of the island’s hero of recent times, Eleftherios Venizelos.

  Creforce Headquarters had been chosen for the same reasons as the site of Venizelos’s tomb: because the view from there was as fine as any on the island. It was around 7.45 a.m. that Woodhouse was ushered through the hallway of the villa and out to the veranda where the British commander had just begun his breakfast.

  ‘Ah, Woodhouse,’ said the general, ‘will you join me? I can offer you coffee, boiled eggs and quite superb bread and honey.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Woodhouse, taking the chair shown by Freyberg’s outstretched hand. The general now pushed a basket of boiled eggs towards him. ‘Help yourself to coffee,’ he said, dabbing at his trim moustache with a starched white napkin.

  Woodhouse thanked him again and then, having poured his coffee and taken an egg, paused to look at the view before him. Below them lay Canea, the ancient harbour protecting the small array of boats like a mother cuddling a child. The pale limestone and whitewashed buildings of the town were vivid against the deep blue of the sea and the lush green coastal plain around it. Beyond, stretching west, was the long sweep of the bay. Visibility was as near to perfect as could be, and Woodhouse could clearly see the small town of Platanias some six miles away and, beyond that, the airfield of Maleme, now quiet and empty of RAF planes. To his left lay Prison Valley through which he had just travelled, and, rising majestically, the great ridge of the White Mountains.

  ‘Hell of a viewpoint, isn’t it?’ said Freyberg. ‘Twenty minutes ago we could see bugger-all for the smoke and dust, but it’s settled down again now. So, tell me, how are our Greek friends?’

  ‘In good heart, sir,’ said Woodhouse. ‘Determined not to give the enemy an inch, should he try to attack.’

  Freyberg chuckled. ‘Good, good. And they’ve got enough ammunition? Positions seem satisfactory to you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Woodhouse was about to expand, but stopped as something suddenly caught his ear. Pausing, he cocked his head. Yes, there it was – out to sea, unmistakable now: the sound of aircraft approaching. He glanced at the general, who was now spreading another generous dollop of thick honey across his bread, apparently oblivious to the sound.

  ‘I know most of them are not Cretans,’ said Freyberg, ‘but Crete is still part of Greece. It’s still their country. Most Greek men will fight like dervishes if it’s Greek soil they’re defending. We’re going to need men like that and, of course, they’re a proud people.’

  By now the sound of aero engines was a steady, increasingly loud drone. Moments later, Woodhouse spotted them – an air armada of Junkers three-engine transport planes and, behind, gliders. Mesmerized, he watched as a number of gliders detached themselves from their Junkers tugs and began drifting down towards the coast. Ahead, the Junkers were now shedding their loads, hundreds of white parachutes suddenly bursting into life like flower buds until the sky was awash with them, white canopies drifting downwards.

  Several gliders were heading seemingly straight towards them, and then more parachutes were dropping. Suddenly, from nearby and from the valley and coast below, firing rang out, anti-aircraft guns booming, black puffs of shell dotting the sky, while amid the crashes of the guns came the steady machine-gun fire of the Bren and the individual snap of the rifle.

  Woodhouse glanced at Freyberg and was astonished to see the Creforce commander calmly continuing to eat his bread and honey. It was inconceivable that the general had not observed what was going on, yet Woodhouse knew that to suggest Freyberg do something would be at best impolite and at worst downright insubordinate. On the other hand, Bren and rifle fire was now crackling very near at hand, from the direction of the Venizelos grave.

  Clearing his throat, Woodhouse said, ‘I say, there’s quite a show going on, sir.’

  ‘H’mph,’ Freyberg replied, now glancing up to see the spectacle. ‘I’ll say one thing for ’em, they’re dead on time.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The enemy,’ said Freyberg, pointing skywards with his knife, ‘impressively punctual.’

  Woodhouse glanced at the ribbon of the Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service Order on the General’s chest, to which had been added no fewer than two clasps, signifying he had been awarded the medal three times. Next to these was an array of other honours. Freyberg’s bravery was legendary.

  Soon after Freyberg had
arrived to take command of Creforce, some three weeks earlier, Woodhouse had been told of how Churchill had once demanded that Freyberg strip off his shirt and vest and show him the wounds he had sustained during the Great War. According to the story, Freyberg had apparently obliged and then Churchill had carefully counted the scars – twenty-seven in all. ‘Yes, but it’s not as bad as it looks,’ Freyberg was supposed to have told him, ‘because you tend to get two wounds for every bullet or piece of shrapnel – one where it goes in and another where it goes out the other side.’ Fearlessness was all very well, Woodhouse thought, but rifle and machine-gun fire were now cracking out very close to hand. Paratroopers were drifting to the ground only a few hundred yards away. Above the din, he could even hear occasional shouts, while behind him, he was conscious of activity within the villa.

  ‘I should report in to the quarry, sir,’ said Woodhouse, as Freyberg calmly poured another cup of coffee.

  ‘Yes, yes, you cut along,’ the general agreed.

  Woodhouse stood up, saluted, and hurried out.

  *

  General Freyberg smiled to himself once Woodhouse had gone. The expression on the young man’s face had been priceless. The truth was, however, that there was little he could do in these first throes of the German attack. He had made his dispositions, ensured his troops were as ready as possible, and had done all he could to urge the Commander-in-Chief, Middle East, to provide aircraft and guns and as many reinforcements as he could spare. Now that the Germans were actually dropping from the sky, he had to let the men get on with it. He would act only once he knew how the battle was developing.

  He had known about the German plans since the beginning of the month; Wavell had let him in on some high-level intelligence. Where that had come from, Freyberg had no idea, but when Wavell assured him it was secure that was good enough for him. Yet the C-in-C had also made it quite clear that he was to guard this secret with his life and under no circumstances was he to act on what he had been told. This was damned frustrating. Any ass could see that the airfield at Maleme, just up the coast, was the key to a successful airborne invasion. Once the Huns had secured the field, they could pour in as many troops as they liked. The maddening thing was that he would have reinforced it considerably had he not known about the German plans. Now that he did, however, the risk of compromising this intelligence was considered too great. He’d rather Wavell had never told him.