Cotton's War

by Cotton's War (retail) (epub)

  Docherty’s anger diminished to a sullen scowl as he wiped the blood from his mouth. ‘Don’t give me that,’ he muttered. ‘You’re all flannel! She wanted it. She was asking for it.’

  ‘You’re a bloody liar!’

  ‘She came down encouraging me.

  ‘I don’t believe you! I’ve a good mind to blow your bloody head off, Docherty! You might have buggered up our chances of ever getting away. We depend on these geezers’ goodwill—’

  ‘We ain’t seen so much so far!’

  ‘But we’ve seen a bit and we need all we can get. If you lift a finger to her again, I will shoot you. Tomorrow night you can row round the bloody point and fetch the petrol. It might do you good. It might make you so bloody tired you’ll not have the energy for that sort of thing.’

  As Docherty climbed to his feet and vanished, Cotton stood in the doorway, staring after him, his chest heaving, his mind whirling with his problems. There seemed to be so much to think about and so much to remember.

  He turned slowly. Annoula had risen to her feet and was fastening her dress.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It won’t ever happen again.’

  She gave him an agonised look and the tears welled up into her eyes. His arms went out to her and pulled her to him, and she dissolved into incoherent sobbing against his wet shirt.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he kept saying, overwhelmed by her smallness, the protective feeling he felt for her, and the odd satisfaction that, despite Docherty’s crazy charm, she had fought him off when he’d expected her to submit. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  After a while, she managed to become coherent. ‘I did not ask him,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t.’

  ‘He made me laugh, that’s all. It’s a long time since I laughed.’ She became faintly hysterical. ‘It’s my fault! I should have stayed in Yithion!’

  He held her tighter, his comfortable soul curiously eased by her dependence on him. ‘It isn’t your fault,’ he said. ‘He’s a fool. He always has been. It’s my fault. I should have seen what he was up to. I never did have much brains.’

  Her fingers tightened on his. ‘You are a good man, Cotton,’ she said.

  He made her sit down. Then he went to the forecastle for the raki bottle. Seeing Gully still snoring on the bunk, he suddenly saw red. The carpenter was a typical seafaring man, boozy, stupid and unreliable ashore, never getting further than the first bar when his ship docked and he had money in his pocket. Consumed with rage, he grabbed his feet and swung them to the deck. Gully rolled off the bunk and crashed on to his face. His eyes wide, he sat up, staring at Cotton’s bedraggled figure.

  ‘What the ’ell?’ he began and, as Cotton wrenched him to his feet, he moaned in anguish.

  ‘Steady on, mate! I’m more keel than funnel at the moment!’

  ‘You bloody fool,’ Cotton said. ‘You got drunk!’

  ‘Only an eyeful! It started raining.’

  ‘I hid the bottle!’

  ‘Docherty found it. It didn’t seem to do no harm.’

  ‘You nearly finished the bloody bottle,’ Cotton snarled. ‘And Docherty knew you would. He tried to rape the girl.’

  Gully seemed unconcerned. ‘Confucius ’e say “No such thing as rape. Lady with skirt up run faster than man with trousers down.”.’

  Cotton grabbed him by the shirt and shook him furiously, so that Gully had to clap a hand over his mouth to stop his false teeth falling out.

  ‘From now on there’ll be no boozing aboard this boat,’ Cotton snapped. ‘I said I’d shoot Docherty if it happened again, and if you let it happen I’ll shoot you too. Okay? We can get back to Crete without either of you if we have to.’

  He left Gully gaping after him, still uncertain what had happened, and, snatching up the bottle, went back to the girl. Sloshing some of the dregs of raki into one of the cans they’d been using for drinking, he sat beside her on the bunk, one arm round her shoulders as she sipped it, gulping her sobs back.

  They were still there when Bisset and Kitcat returned, both of them as wet as Cotton from the rain. Bisset’s face was bewildered.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘Gully’s sitting in the forecastle with a fat head and Docherty’s scowling at the floor in the engine room. We heard a lot of aircraft and we thought at first they’d shot the boat up.’

  Cotton gestured angrily. ‘Keep Docherty away from me,’ he snarled, ‘or I’ll probably murder him.’

  He told them what had happened and Bisset frowned. ‘Fat lot of help we’ll get if it gets to Yithion,’ he commented.

  The girl shook her head. ‘I shall not tell anyone,’ she said in English. ‘Soon it will all be over and you’ll be gone.’

  His face concerned, Bisset gently took the tin from her and put the last of the raki into it. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Finish it. Then try to sleep. It’ll seem different tomorrow.’

  As they closed the cabin door, leaving her lying curled up on the bunk, her face to the bulkhead, Bisset’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Did he?’ He left the sentence unfinished and Cotton shook his head.

  ‘No. I arrived just in time. The dinghy’s still on the beach with the petrol in it. We’d better get it.’

  Despair and hatred for Docherty darkened his face. He was well aware of his own lack of skill and it infuriated him that he was dependent on such fools as Gully and the stoker. The consciousness of his isolation swept over him again. Even Bisset, always calm, always helpful and encouraging, couldn’t take from him the load he’d shouldered – probably a bit too bloody fast, he thought bitterly. But having shouldered it, he couldn’t push it off on to any of the others. Not now.

  Bisset was watching him as if he could read his thoughts.

  ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘The news isn’t all bad. We brought back both mountings. We’ll fix ’em on the deck tomorrow. Then, if those bloody Greeks come back, it won’t take a second to jam one of the Lewises in place. You could use it on Docherty at a pinch if you felt like it.’

  Eleven

  The following morning, the Varvaras arrived in the blue caique. They brought news that Howard was much better and a load of oakum, tallow and three pots of paint. One of the pots contained black, one red and one the electric blue of Varvara’s boat.

  As the sun rose higher, they brought round the 20mm cannon. Considering it safer to stay behind, Cotton sent Bisset and Kitcat, while he remained near Annoula. She seemed to have recovered and sat on the wheelhouse roof, watching the sky for aircraft, her face pale and set. Gully worked on the hull, frowning as if he had a headache. A bit of fun and games with a girl had never troubled his conscience before, and he knew that if it hadn’t been Docherty it might well have been himself. Sailors were never noted for their high moral tone and he couldn’t understand what Cotton was getting hot under the collar about.

  His face pulpy, Docherty sullenly began to assemble the starboard engine. T reckon you’ve broken my nose,’ he complained.

  ‘You’re bloody lucky,’ Cotton said briskly. ‘I might have broken your neck.’

  ‘Just for a bloody wop ’ore!’

  ‘Docherty,’ Cotton said, ‘she’s no more a whore than you’re a ponce. She’s done a lot to help us. So drop it, Docherty. Drop it or I will break your neck.’

  Docherty still seemed to want to argue but Cotton turned away and left him to it. During the morning, they removed everything from the deck and hid until the German caiques had passed the end of the bay. Cotton stared after them as they vanished. ‘What do you reckon they’re up to?’ he asked Bisset.

  ‘Looking for us, perhaps?’

  ‘I wondered if they’re doing a guard to stop anybody getting away from here to Crete. Patullo said they were expecting them to invade.’ Cotton frowned. ‘Still, everybody knows that. Even me. Let’s get these rudders off.’ ‘Tomorrow,’ Gully pleaded. ‘My ’ead’s like a setpot.’ Cotton reached out with a big hand and, grasping Gully’s shirt, dragged him
forward until their noses were inches apart. ‘Now,’ he said.

  For a moment, Gully glared feebly but he was neither big enough nor in a fit enough state of health to argue. Docherty hadn’t waited for instructions and was already in the after hatch, throwing out rope and unlashing gear. As he removed the last bolt and whacked the end of the stock with a leather mallet, the starboard rudder began to slip downwards. As it dropped away, Cotton noticed with a certain amount of surprise that, contrary to what he’d expected and exactly as Docherty had predicted, the sea didn’t rush in and fill the after compartment.

  * * *

  At the end of the afternoon, Cotton again told Docherty that he was going to have to row the next drum of petrol round.

  ‘Why me?’ Docherty said. ‘I been at it all day and there’s work to be done in the engine room.’

  ‘Tell Kitcat what to do. You’re so bloody strong, it might do you good to row round to Kharasso Bay and back.’ While Docherty set off for the headland in the dinghy, Bisset and Kitcat took the donkey over the hill to bring back what they could. Cotton watched them go, wondering if Docherty would simply go on rowing to Kalani and give himself up. The previous night’s affair had brought a new problem– how to organise his manpower so that whenever the girl was aboard, there was somebody reliable at hand in case it happened again. With Docherty and Gully his only two skilled men and the rest of his team having to make the journeys to Kharasso Bay, it wasn’t easy.

  The night passed without incident, however. Rather to Cotton’s surprise, Docherty returned with another drum of petrol and more planks, and the following day they removed the surviving rudder from Claudia. Bringing it over the hill on the donkey’s back, Docherty built a fire in an attempt to straighten out the bend in the stock.

  He wasn’t entirely successful but they decided it would work. The top of the stock had been narrowed and squared to take a tiller for hand operation in emergency, and there was a hole through it for the big split pin that held the nut which secured the rudder arm when it was connected to the main steering. Threading a long wire from one of the mast stays through the hole, they passed the other end under the boat and up through the rudder tube into the after compartment where Cotton, with an ugly soldier’s knot, bent on a heaving line to give them a grip for pulling. Then, with the same arrangement of plank, lines and rope they’d used for the propeller, Docherty manoeuvred the rudder into position beneath the boat and pushed from beneath as Bisset and Kitcat hauled on the heaving line. As the stock was dragged up through the tube, they secured it in position and Docherty eyed it with a satisfaction that was only marred by the crooked look his bruised nose and eyes gave his face.

  ‘Right,’ Cotton decided. ‘Now we’ll dismantle the pump from Claudia and shove it aboard to give us double suction. There’s time to do it today.’

  Docherty sighed. ‘I wish I was a millionaire’s bastard,’ he said.

  * * *

  Three days later, Dendras Varvara’s caique turned up again and they got him to bring round the last of the gear from Kharasso Bay, the heavy batteries from Claudia’s engine room and what was left of the drums of petrol. It was now the 18th, and since they had no idea what was happening to the north, it was essential to find out. Cotton had not forgotten the instructions that had been given to Patullo before they’d left Crete. In addition to rescuing Loukia’s survivors and her cargo of money and weapons – enough in all conscience, it seemed now – they had been ordered to find out what the Germans were up to. And in his heart of hearts, Cotton was also hoping that somehow he might get news that would counteract all the gloomy items he’d been hearing over the past few days. He drew Bisset and the Canadian to one side.

  ‘I’m going to Kalani with the girl,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to find out what’s happening. She says there’s a bus from Ay Yithion and I can speak the lingo.’

  Since he had to rely on Docherty to carry on working while he was away, he also felt obliged to tell him what he intended. He was relieved to see Docherty grin his old grin again.

  ‘And this is a warning to the hearts and flowers kid to behave hisself, eh?’ he said.

  It surprised Cotton that he was so good-humoured about it. ‘Yes,’ he said stiffly.

  Docherty did a few dance steps and looked up at Cotton. ‘Y’know,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t trying to rape her. It was just the old Docherty technique. Only this time it didn’t work. If she’d screamed I’d have stopped.’

  ‘She was probably too frightened to scream.’ Cotton was handing out nothing in the way of forgiveness.

  ‘Yeah – well—’ Docherty left what he was going to say unfinished ‘—you needn’t have clouted me like that. I thought my eyes was going to fall out and roll on the deck like ping-pong balls.’

  ‘Touch her again and they will.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Docherty raised his hands in submission. ‘Come to think of it, I’m not sure I like Greek bints anyway. Compared with what we’ve got on Tyneside, I wouldn’t give you a fly button for the lot of them. She’s all yours.’

  Cotton’s head jerked round. Tra not interested in Greek bints either,’ he said.

  Docherty grinned. Then why,’ he said, ‘are you always goggling at her like last week’s kippers?’

  * * *

  Between them they managed to equip Cotton in civilian clothes – a pair of flannel trousers from Docherty, a ghastly pink pullover with holes in the elbows from Gully, a checked shirt from Bisset. It was significant that only Cotton himself, a Regular to his fingertips, had nothing civilian to contribute to his garb.

  ‘We need some more petrol,’ Docherty shouted down to him as he climbed ashore. ‘We’ll not get to Suda with what we’ve got.’

  Cotton stared up at him. ‘I’ll buy some in Kalani,’ he said sarcastically. ‘There’s bound to be a Woolworth’s.’

  They caught the bus where the road curved up from Ay Yithion. It was packed with people taking produce to the island capital. The rear portion was filled with fish boxes, while among the seats there were chickens in wicker cages, a trussed sheep, and baskets of fruit. The road wound through the marshes of the central plain where the island sank like the centre of a shallow plate, and they could see herons among the weeds and dozens of what looked like large versions of children’s windmills. The ground around them was white with camomile, the flame of genista, rock roses and patches of red poppies.

  To their right they could see Cape Asigonia projecting out to sea between a curve of the steep hills that ran round the south of the island. At the junction of the road to Skoinia, another batch of people crammed more baskets and another sheep into the back of the bus. As they passed the airstrip at Yanitsa, Cotton sat up. There was a large wire compound near the road where impounded civilian vehicles were carrying jerricans of petrol to stacks that had already been built.

  ‘What do they want petrol for?’ he muttered. ‘Caiques run on diesel.’

  There were half a dozen trimotored Junkers at the far end of the strip, three Messerschmitt IIOS and what looked like a Junkers 88. There also seemed to be an enormous number of Germans, all wearing peaked caps and in their shirt sleeves, but no one stopped the bus and it was allowed to pass without incident. The end of the road from Kaessos produced more people. Then to the east of Kalani, as they passed a group of red-roofed buildings among the trees in the distance which Annoula identified as Panyioti’s holiday home, they saw German soldiers at the end of a lane. They were tormenting a couple of girls carrying baskets of vegetables. They had surrounded them and kept touching the girls’ breasts and behinds and were pretending to lift their skirts, and the girls were giving little screams of terror that were drowned by the deeper laughter of the soldiers.

  The Germans were all young and they all looked remarkably tough. They wore the ordinary short-jacketed grey-green uniform of the Wehrmacht but all distinguishing badges had been removed and they had an air about them that seemed to indicate they were not the same as the rest of the German soldi
ers on the island. They had a look of capability and self-sufficiency and didn’t seem like men to be trifled with.

  As the bus drew level with them, they left the girls and started to run towards it, shouting and waving their arms. The bus driver panicked, as though he feared there might be trouble if they managed to get aboard. His foot went down on the accelerator and the ancient vehicle began to labour, its engine roaring. The increased speed was slight but it was enough to put it beyond the reach of the running men, and one of them dragged a pistol from a holster and fired several shots into the air. A woman screamed and Annoula turned towards Cotton and hid her face against his chest.

  Kalani was a small place, shabby for the most part, and the main road had been taken up for repairs so that the bus had to stop outside the centre of the town and they had to walk the rest of the way over a path made of planks and flat stones.

  The weather was still unsettled, with a fluky wind threatening rain. The sea had risen and the waves were punching at the cliffs, and, as they approached the town centre, the rain finally came. The stones shone in the grey light as it pounded down. Everybody vanished from the streets into the shops and taverns, and the slanting alleys and the climbing steps among the tiers of white cube houses ran with water.

  They found a cafe and ordered wine. Through the window they could see the jetty and the masts of the boats almost misted away by the rain. A giant acacia shaded the terrace but provided no shelter against the downpour that blew and spat and crackled against the windows. A dozen broad streams rushed down the steps and across the square, carrying pebbles and twigs and scraps of paper with them.

  The cafe was jammed with people, talking or playing cards. The whitewashed walls were hung with prints of steamers and ferry-boats, and there was a gilt mirror and a picture of a girl in Edwardian dress alongside a photograph of the King of the Hellenes. Everybody seemed nervous and ill at ease, the wireless blaring out in a crackling drone that obscured the voices of the customers. The programme seemed to be one long news bulletin that appeared to consist only of a long list of military disasters. The centre of Belgrade had been destroyed by Nazi bombers which, unopposed and skimming the rooftops, had rained down their missiles on the stricken city for three days. Thousands of people had been killed. ‘Yugoslavia must be crushed,’ the Germans were declaring. Meanwhile the Greek army, which had successfully resisted the Italians for six months, was now on the brink of capitulation before the German might. For Britain, Greece had proved nothing but another Norway. Her expeditionary force of sixty thousand men had been overwhelmed by the sheer weight of metal and, with inadequate air cover, was disintegrating into a nightmare.