by Iain Gale
‘Yes. My thoughts entirely. We are alike, don’t you think?’
Lamb smiled, amused and annoyed that she hadn’t detected the obvious sarcasm in his tone. She was an extraordinarily simple woman, he thought, capable of giving her allegiance to one person. War was so very simple in her mind.
After lunch she suggested a walk and Lamb was only too pleased to accept. It made the perfect excuse to finally get away from the house and avoid any further hints of a more complex relationship. He hoped she might have got the message.
They walked towards Galatas, enjoying the afternoon breeze, which blew in from the sea, across the hills. As they entered the village, Lamb was surprised to see Valentine walking towards them up the road. He was with a New Zealand corporal whom he had befriended. As he passed Lamb and Mrs Hartley he smiled knowingly.
Miranda Hartley did not notice the two men. She was still talking. ‘… and there’s a frightfully nice young English officer here whom Julian used to know in London. Michael Hathaway. You should really meet him. Perhaps we can organise dinner, or lunch.’
Lamb looked at her. ‘What, oh yes, that would be good.’ He was still thinking about her throwaway comment about Freyberg and the King of Greece.
Aware that she was being ignored, Miranda smiled at him. ‘I should go. Lots to do. People to see. You know.’
‘Sorry, yes, of course. Let’s meet for a drink some time. I should like to meet your husband again. And Hathaway. Fascinating about the King. But where’s he staying? Surely there are no royal palaces on the island. Apart from Knossos, of course.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, apparently he’s in a big house quite near here. At Perivolia or somewhere. Lovely to see you, Peter. Goodbye then.’
She bent up towards him and planted the smallest of kisses on his cheek. It was not much, but just enough to leave him uncertain as to whether she thought of them as more than friends. Lamb could hardly believe his luck. A villa in Perivolia! Without knowing it he had already been carrying out the colonel’s instructions, shadowing his charge from a safe distance, from the transit camp outside Perivolia.
As he watched Miranda Hartley walking away, Lamb could see Valentine returning, minus the Kiwi corporal. He walked over to Lamb, still smiling. ‘Ah, sweet Isle that hath such voices in it.’
Lamb did not look at him. ‘Sorry?’
‘I only said, “Ah, sweet Isle that …”’
‘Shut up, Valentine. I know what you said. And why. And you’re wrong.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘And don’t be so bloody facetious.’
‘But don’t you think it’s funny, Captain, how our companion, the lovely Mrs Hartley, is named after the very character from Shakespeare who turns up on a desert island?’
Lamb sighed. ‘I know what play you were quoting from, Valentine.’
‘Sorry, sir. I forgot that you had a Classical education. I can only suppose that I might be her Caliban. But who can we cast you as, sir? Ferdinand, perhaps?’
Lamb said nothing.
Valentine continued. ‘Prospero, then.’
‘Even more absurd. I’m no magician.’
‘No, sir. I think I’ll settle on Ferdinand for you. You could do with a happy ending. A little romance.’
‘I’m warning you, Valentine.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now get back to the camp. I’m sure there’s something useful you can do.’
He walked further into the village, where he had earlier arranged to meet Charles Eadie, and found the young lieutenant in the centre of the village looking at the church with its twin whitewashed towers.
‘Lost in thought, Charles?’
‘I was just thinking, sir, how strange it is to be here, as if one were a tourist. I mean, here we are enjoying life in this extraordinary place, and any moment it might all come to an end.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean. It’s as if life goes on regardless. Perhaps we should make the most of it. We might be back in Egypt before you know it.’
‘Do you think so, sir? But just say that we don’t get away and the Jerries do invade. How many men has General Freyberg got?’
‘According to my sources there are something over 30,000 Allied troops on this island, along with the odds and sods. That’s with a population of 400,000 Cretans. And some of them might be pretty handy with a gun or whatever else comes to hand. If he does come, he’s going to have a fight on his hands.’
‘How do you think they’ll do it, sir? Paratroops, like Corinth? Or from the sea?’
Lamb nodded. ‘Both. If I were invading this place I’d want to make sure I had a bridgehead first, and the best way to do that, if you control the air, is by dropping men out of the sky. Then you take the airfields, and then you land more men by plane and invade from the sea.’
There was a sudden commotion in a street behind them, just off the square. Raised voices. Both men turned and instinctively walked towards them. Getting closer, it appeared that something was happening in the little kafeneio that lay down the narrow side street close to the corner. The voices from inside were louder now. Lamb could hear English voices, and above them a woman was screaming.
6
A crowd had gathered around the door of the kafeneio as, running now, Lamb and Eadie made their way past the low wall outside the bar, ducked under the awning and went inside. The smoke-filled room was packed with soldiers. Lamb pushed his way through the press of bodies, with Eadie close behind him.
Someone he pushed into half turned. ‘Oi, watch it mate.’ Then, ‘Oh, sorry, sir.’
Seeing an officer, several of the men closest to the door melted away outside. The others, though, seemed oblivious, and Lamb knew why. The place reeked of cheap booze.
The room was cool and sparsely decorated with a religious icon, a poster advertising raki and a large mirror, while hanging from a beam were baskets of bright pink plants. There were four tables and a long wooden bar with a highly polished top. Against this, with their backs to the bar, stood two British soldiers in shirtsleeves, one wearing a forage cap. At the table nearest to the bar an officer in staff uniform was standing, and beside him stood two more British privates. One of them had to be the biggest man Lamb had ever seen. He was an ordinary soldier and in his right hand he was holding a fighting knife. Next to him stood his mate, a fraction smaller but clutching a broken bottle. As Lamb and Eadie entered, the men looked round and smiled. One of them spoke in a slurred Liverpudlian drawl.
‘’Ere we go, Mick. Two more jokers, by the look of them.’
They turned back to the officer. Lamb half recognised his features: a long, aquiline nose, slicked back dark hair and a moustache. The one who had spoken continued. ‘Look ’ere, chum. We told you, hop it. No one gonna stop us having a drink. Least of all some ponced-up wop.’
The officer spoke. ‘I’m not a wop, as you put it so politely. I am Greek and I’m an officer. If you talk to me again in that manner I will have you all on a charge. Leave now and I will say nothing more.’
The big man pressed himself up against the officer. ‘You’ll what? Have us on a charge? I’ll tell you what you’ll do. You’ll fuck off out of it while you still can.’
He turned to the bar, behind which Lamb now saw two people were standing. One was a man in his fifties, tall and with typically Cretan looks: the angular, hawk-like features above a bushy moustache now turning grey. His face was red with fury, and Lamb could see why. One of the soldiers at the bar had a pistol trained on him. Beside him stood a girl. She looked terrified.
The big man spoke. ‘Two more rakis, Niko, or whatever your name is. No, make it a bottle. Let’s have a party. Get the girl to bring them over.’
He leered at his friends and made an upward motion with his fist. ‘All right, sweetie. You bring us drink, yes? Jaldi jaldi.’
That got a laugh from the room. But not from Lamb or Eadie. It took a matter of a second for Lamb to draw his pistol. Eadie had done the same, and both were pointing at the two soldi
ers by the officer. Lamb spoke across the room, silencing it. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
He hardly needed to ask, but the Greek officer gave him the answer he needed. ‘Captain, thank God. These men are drunk. I have forbidden the owner to give them any more, but they disobey. They have also insulted a superior officer.’
Lamb looked at the ringleader. ‘Is this true?’
‘Piss off. This is our beef. This bastard won’t let us drink. Greek bastard! What are we doing here, saving his bloody skin?’
Lamb continued. ‘Unless you drop your weapons, I will shoot you.’
‘I said piss off.’
‘Can’t you see, man? I’m an officer.’
‘Piss off, sir, then.’
‘Put down the knife, you fool. You’ll do time for this, war or no war. Make it better on yourself. Put down the knife.’
‘Think you can make me, sir?’
‘Put it down, man. Don’t be stupid.’
The man lurched slightly and Lamb could see that his drunkenness had the better of him.
‘Bastard barman won’t let us have any more wine. We’ve come here to save the bugger from the bloody Jerries and he won’t let us have any wine. What does he want? Bloody wop.’
That was enough for Lamb. ‘He’s not a bloody wop, soldier, he’s a bloody Cretan. And he owes you nothing.’
The man turned and, it seemed in slow motion, made a stab at the Greek officer, who backed away, but Lamb was faster. In an instant he had moved across the room and, his pistol still clutched tightly in it, brought his right fist hard up and straight into the soldier’s face. The man fell back screaming and, dropping the knife, clutched at his bloody face where the gun had connected with his nose, pulping it to one side.
Then, recovering, he turned on Lamb. The girl screamed as the man threw himself across the room, roaring with rage. His bloody fist caught Lamb in the stomach, winding him and knocking him back. Lamb tried to blot out the pain and focused, sidestepping another swing from the man’s left fist. In swinging the soldier had overbalanced and tried to straighten up. But it was too late. In a swift motion Lamb brought the butt of the revolver hard down upon the man’s bare head with a sickening crunch, and the soldier slumped to the floor unconscious, blood pouring from his head. The other soldier dropped the broken bottle and stood staring at his friend for a moment before quickly putting his hands up, his face ash-white.
‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot me. Jesus. Please.’
Lamb kept the gun trained on him, and for a ghastly moment thought of himself as the major on the beach at Rafina, shooting dead the drunken Aussie. Snapping out of it, he motioned to Eadie to grab the two men at the bar who were sidling towards the door. It was over in an instant, and not surprisingly, when Lamb turned back to the room, he found that along with the other two officers and the three remaining drunks, apart from the owner and the girl, the bar had cleared.
The Greek officer approached Lamb, stepping over the bloody body of his unconscious assailant. He had fine features and a tanned complexion, and from his hands it was clear that he was obviously no working man, nor ever had been.
‘Thank you, Captain. That was quick thinking. I’m in your debt. Shall we get out of here? Away from all this.’
Lamb turned to Eadie. ‘Charles, get this lot under guard, will you. I passed a guardhouse on the way in. See if you can find any redcaps. Oh, and he might need a medic.’
Once outside, the captain brightened up. ‘That’s better. Now tell me whom I should thank for saving me.’
‘Peter Lamb. North Kents.’
The officer snapped to attention. ‘Thank you, Captain Lamb.’ He paused. ‘I take it you don’t know who I am?’
‘I’m afraid not. Do I take it perhaps that I should?’
The man laughed. ‘Funnily enough my name is Peter too. But the army list says simply Captain, the Prince Peter. Does that help?’
Lamb stared. ‘Good heavens. I’m terribly sorry, Your Highness. Of course.’
Prince Peter of Greece smiled at him. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. You realise that it makes it rather more important that it didn’t get any nastier in there. What’s most annoying, though, about what’s just happened is that I’m with liaison.’ He laughed. ‘I’m chiefly responsible for making things work between our two armies. But you might say it’s also my job to ease relations between all the Allied troops on Crete and the local population. I wonder what your general would think of what just went on in there. I’ll have to file a report.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Your Highness. Those men got drunk and threatened you.’
‘Yes, but as far as records are concerned I was in a dispute with some British soldiers and one of them was badly injured.’
‘Sir, with respect. That was not the case, and I will swear to it.’
‘Will you? Thank you, Captain. It’s just that my family have never been that popular in parts of Greece, Crete included, and there are certain people who will look for every excuse to discredit us.’ He replaced his hat, which he had been carrying. ‘I’ll say goodbye. My driver was with me before those animals arrived. Better find him. Thank you again, Lamb. I shan’t forget it.’
Lamb saluted and went back into the kafeneio. So now at least he had met a member of the King’s party. He had been careful not to mention his mission, nor to enquire any further as to the King’s whereabouts. It had been a productive day.
Inside, he was pleased to see that Eadie had found some men to remove the unconscious man and that the girl from the bar had mopped the floor. He went over to her as she cleared up behind the bar. She had wiped her tears now and Lamb noticed her striking features – strong, yet with a powerful, sculptural beauty, dark, almost raven-black hair and bright blue eyes.
She smiled at him. ‘Thank you. My father is very grateful too. We didn’t know what they would do.’
‘It was nothing.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I agree. It was not much. Perhaps I would have managed.’
He smiled, taken aback. ‘Would you?’
‘I don’t know, really. Since my mother died I manage most things. But that? I don’t know. Would you like a drink?’
Lamb was going to refuse but saw the look in her eyes.
‘Please, Captain. I’d like to say thank you.’
He laughed. ‘In that case it would be rude to refuse.’
She poured a shot glass of raki and he took it and downed it in one, feeling the fiery spirit burning his throat. ‘You know who that was? The Greek officer?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I know.’ She shrugged. ‘We don’t care for them much, the royal family. But that would not have been a good way to die.’
‘No. Not for anyone. Even a prince.’
‘They’re not all bad, you know,’ she said, smiling again. ‘Your soldiers, I mean. Just a few of them. They get drunk. We don’t really understand it. Of course we drink too, but only at parties. Not like that.’
‘They want to forget. And they’re not my soldiers. But they should know better.’
‘What are your soldiers? New Zealanders? Kiwis?’
‘English.’
‘Oh. You live at the camp?’
‘Yes. It’s pretty dire.’
‘Dire?’
‘Sorry. It’s not very comfortable. Or pretty.’
He looked at her again, then, conscious that he might be seen to be staring, looked away at the poster on the wall, which showed a smiling old man in Greek costume raising a glass of raki.
She spoke quietly. ‘I wish we could forget. Perhaps we should drink, like them. One of my brothers is missing. In Albania. I think he’s dead. My father is half mad with worry, but he will never show it. But I know.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and extended one to Lamb. ‘Sorry, my name is Anna. Anna Levandakis. My father owns this bar.’
‘Lamb. Peter Lamb. I’m sorry about your brother. I hope you’re wrong.’
‘I’m usually right. But sometimes I think it would be better fo
r him. What hope have we got here? Oh, I don’t mean you. I’m sure you will fight bravely. But I know that you will have to leave. The Germans will have too many men, and then you will go and we will be left to fight them alone.’
‘Will you fight?’
She smiled and nodded. ‘Of course I will fight. We all will. We’re Cretans. We will never let an enemy take our homeland. We fought the Greeks five years ago and before them the Turks, for centuries. Why should the Germans be any different? After you have gone we will take to the hills and they will go. We may lose many people, but in the end they will go and we will survive.’
Lamb looked at her in admiration. She reminded him of a girl he had taken out from France last year and left behind in London. She had been a fighter too, a true Frenchwoman who had vowed to help liberate her country. But this girl was something more. He had never heard anyone, particularly a woman, speak with such vehemence and such certainty of winning.
She held out the bottle to him. ‘More?’
‘No, no, thank you. That was good. But I have work to do. My men …’
She smiled. ‘Will you come back? I mean, will you come and drink here again?’
Lamb nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, of course. I will. Thank you, Anna.’
It was enough to say, for now. He wandered away from the village back towards the camp and thought of the drunken soldier and wondered what damage he had done. He had had no alternative, he supposed. It was clear that the man would have made a mess of Prince Peter. Surely, it was what anyone else would have done, and for anyone? He wondered whether there might have been an alternative and then thought again of the major at Rafina. Of course Lamb had not killed the man, and he was thankful for that. That had been a stupid way to die, a waste of a man’s life in a war where all life had become cheap, where men were expendable and were sacrificed daily for the greater good. Entering the camp perimeter he returned the sentry’s salute and walked to his tent. Smart was waiting for him, and as Lamb entered he looked down at the officer’s dust-encrusted shoes and smiled.
The following day Lamb found himself summoned by runner to the HQ of the newly appointed commander of 10th Brigade, Colonel Howard Kippenberger, a famously forceful New Zealander. The HQ for the Canea and Suda battlegroup was based in one of the few grander houses in Galatas, not far in fact from the Levandakis’ kafeneio, and Lamb wondered whether his audience with the colonel might have something to do with yesterday’s incident. Summary justice and martial law were the norm now. Surely, he thought, he was not going to be asked for a full report and a justification of his actions?
