by Iain Gale
Over the next hour they learnt to parry, block and the other basic thrusts, and then went on to horizontal strokes with the rifle butt. There was the smash and the slash, aimed at the neck. Then, for good measure, Lamb taught them how to use the butt, combined with some very unsportsmanlike kicks to sensitive areas. That had them grinning. He caught Bennett yelling at one of them, ‘Stab the bugger. Kill him, go on. He’s a bloody Jerry and he wants to rape your bloody sister.’
Lamb turned to Charles Eadie. ‘I wonder what the Greek is for that.’
By the end of the morning, Mays, Perkins, Hughes, Butterworth and Wilkinson between them had the Greeks running around and screaming like a platoon of the best that Aldershot could offer.
Bennett stood with him, watching in admiration. ‘By hell, sir. That’s something, that is. They’re not half bad. Some of them even scare me. D’you reckon it’ll work on the day? When Jerry does get here?’
‘I’m blowed if I know, Sarnt-Major. But if we work hard enough on them we might have a chance. Besides, whatever happens it’ll make them feel as if they can do it. And you and I know that’s half the battle.’
In fact it took ten days to knock the Greeks and the handful of Cretans into some sort of soldierly shape, and by the end of that time Lamb knew that he could do no more. He and the others had improved their skills as soldiers. There were other things, though, with which he was unable to help. For a start, like his own men they were riddled with lice. He tried to get the camp CO to allow them to use the canvas showers, but was met with a steadfast refusal. Worse than that, many of the Greeks had contracted malaria. He lost thirty out of his company in the time it took to train them, evacuated to the field hospital. Those that remained, however, were good, and it was with renewed confidence that Lamb was able to send a report to Colonel Kippenberger with the assurance that his Greeks would stand and fight when the time came.
But still it did not come.
Dawn broke on Monday 19 May and Lamb’s depleted company, strengthened by their Greek comrades, stirred themselves for another day in paradise. Like clockwork the enemy bombers came in for their daily run at 8 a.m. but the camp and the forward position on Pink Hill remained untouched. Lamb watched the planes move away above Heraklion, circling and diving like so many angry wasps.
After morning parade, as had become his custom, Lamb wandered up to the little kafeneio in Galatas and sat drinking his coffee, reading through Part One orders. There was nothing to report. He had come here every day for the past week, driven not only by the chance for a moment’s peace and the time to think, but also by the knowledge that Anna would be here, working for her father who owned the place.
The men had a mutual respect for each other, not least on account of Lamb’s ridding his establishment of the drunks. Fortunately, however, Anna’s father seemed in the dark as to the identity of the Greek captain he had rescued. For one thing he had learnt well was that the Cretans had no great love of the Greek royal family.
Each time Lamb came, he would walk up to the bar before sitting down and he and Anna would exchange a few words. She had taught him several words of Greek. Now her face, her smile and her world had become part of his daily routine. He had said nothing to anyone about her. She and her café were his refuge, an utterly private place in which he could lose himself, drinking in the heady aroma of fresh coffee, baking pastry, honey and tobacco.
Always of course, while at the kafeneio, he would make sure that he kept himself busy. Despite his command’s ramshackle situation there always seemed to be paperwork to attend to. Captain Page made sure of that, treating Lamb almost as a camp adjutant. This morning he had signed a couple of forms for the camp MO, hoping that what seemed to be two cases of food poisoning were not dysentery. He looked again through the daily orders and took another sip of coffee, and then looked up to see Anna standing in front of him, smiling down. How had he not noticed her?
‘Good morning, Peter. Busy?’
‘No, just the usual paperwork.’
‘Oh yes. Your officer’s work.’
‘Officer’s work.’
‘Will we see you at the party tonight? My little brother Andreas’ birthday. Remember? I told you.’
‘I was hoping to come, but I can’t be sure. I might be needed.’
‘Try to come. Please. I would like to see you. I mean, I think you would enjoy it. And who knows when we will have the chance again?’
Then, for the first time since they had met, she pressed her hand down on to his, and as she did so a man walked out of the shadows beside the bar and crossed the room towards them. He was tall, with huge hands and the moustache so typical of Cretan men of a certain age. Anna’s father, Nikos Levandakis, smiled at Lamb.
‘So, you are coming to the party tonight, Kapitan?’
Hearing him, Anna drew her hand away.
Lamb stood up and shook his head. ‘I was just explaining to Anna, sir, that I might be rather busy. We don’t know when or where the Germans might attack.’
Nikos shrugged. ‘Pah. What of it? Whenever those bloody cuckolds attack we will be ready for them.’ He patted a knife tucked into his belt. Lamb had seen him use it for cutting bread but was sure he would use it just as readily on a man. He continued, ‘Be honest, you will have finished your work by then, Kapitan, and your men are good enough to take care of themselves. Bring some of them too, if you like. I like the man Valentine very much. He tells good jokes.’
Lamb laughed. ‘Does he really? What are they about? The Germans, I suppose.’
Levandakis laughed and shook his head. ‘No, Kapitan Lamb. He tells jokes about you.’
Still smiling to himself, Lamb emerged from the quiet, cool darkness of the kafeneio and found himself confronted with a street filled with soldiers. They were Greeks, all in uniform of various conditions, a few with tin hats, but on closer inspection Lamb was fairly certain that they were not his Greeks. They lolled against the walls in front of the church’s twin towers, smoking and chatting as their officers did the same, and Lamb wondered why they had congregated here. He did not have a long wait before he found out. A tall man wearing a regulation-issue British army yellow jersey, which came almost to the turn-ups of his baggy khaki shorts, emerged from a side street to the right. On his feet he wore brown boots topped by long yellow socks and beneath the jersey a khaki drill shirt and tie. But the most striking thing about him was his hair, which was yellow, almost golden, Lamb thought, and slicked back against his head.
He walked up to one of the Greek officers, who dropped his cigarette and snapped to attention to greet him. Then, seeing Lamb standing by the kafeneio, he walked across. Lamb noticed that he wore a captain’s three pips on his epaulettes, and strikingly, contrary to all advice when in the field, they had been Brasso-ed to an impressive sheen.
‘Hello. Michael Hathaway, the Buffs. Do I know you?’
Lamb shook hands. ‘No, we haven’t met, but your name has been mentioned. Peter Lamb, North Kents.’
Hathaway nodded. ‘Ah, a Jackal. You’re Lamb. Of course. I’ve heard a lot about you from the colonel and Prince Peter. You saved his life.’ He gestured to the Greeks. ‘You’ve met my new command, I take it? Likely-looking bunch, aren’t they?’
‘Almost as prepossessing as mine. But I’m sure they’ll fight well enough, once you’ve given them a bit of extra coaching.’
Hathaway laughed. ‘Yes. But, you know, I’ve nothing but respect for them. Saw them fighting the Eyeties in Albania, and by God they can fight. They prove the lie for the British style of things. And I’ve got some help. We’ve had some chaps out here for quite some time, you know. Undercover. Sort of secret agents. All a bit too John Buchan for me. Eccentric.’
Lamb looked again at the man before him and said nothing.
Hathaway continued. ‘But they’ve got the natives fairly fired up, and now the whole thing seems about to kick off I’m jolly glad of them. In fact, if you stick around you’ll meet them. Cigarette?’ He offered an o
pen case, and Lamb accepted. Hathaway lit it for him.
‘Thanks. Yes, I knew that we’d been working with the locals. They seem to be spoiling for a fight.’
‘Everyone is, if you ask me. You can’t blame them. Cooped up in this place for weeks with nothing but lice and the runs. I blame the oranges. Eaten far too many myself. Dreadful bad. You were in Greece?’
‘Fought our way down from Thermopylae and got away by the skin of our teeth as the Jerries were at the gates of Athens. You?’
Hathaway nodded. ‘I was with the Military Mission out here, working with the Prince. We had a high time of it. Managed to get across the bridge at Corinth before it went. We got away in a boat full of civilians on the 24th. The captain was blind drunk so I took over, but we ended up back on the mainland. Next day we pitched up on Kithera. We didn’t get here till the 30th. I’m staying in the Prince’s cottage now. Pleasant place. We’ve got his cook, too. Marcos. Damn good. Where are you?’
Here was another link to the royal party, thought Lamb, hardly believing his luck. ‘In the transit camp at Perivolia, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, bad luck. Place is rife with lice, I hear. Still, the word is that the attack will come soon, so I shouldn’t get too comfortable.’ He laughed and looked at his soldiers as they stood around the square, then spoke again. ‘You know, I can’t help feeling we’ve let them down. The Greeks, that is. Perhaps we can make up for it here.’
There was a noise on the other side of the square across from the kafeneio and a group of men entered. Instantly they were mobbed by the soldiers. Cheers rang through the village.
‘Ah,’ said Hathaway. ‘Our guests have arrived.’
He beckoned Lamb to come with him and together they walked across the square towards the church. The soldiers, seeing Hathaway, moved aside to reveal a party of armed men, in local civilian dress, the largest of whom was standing at the front, with his arms folded.
Hathaway led the way. ‘Captain Lamb, allow me to introduce Kapitan Bandouvas.’
The newcomer was dressed unlike anyone Peter had ever seen. He sported a pair of short riding boots, the sort of thing a Napoleonic hussar might wear, and above them baggy trousers in a richly coloured purple cloth. His shirt was full and white and topped with a black embroidered waistcoat, and on his head he wore a round black cap, hung with tassels. It looked to Lamb like a cross between the sort of thing his aunt might have hung around a teapot and something that might be sported by a tart in one of the cheaper Cairo brothels. His heavy-set face was defined by a huge handlebar moustache. Taken as a whole he looked like a cross between one of the chorus in a production of The White Horse Inn and an extra from Desert Song. What really marked him out, though, was the assortment and number of weapons that he carried. His rifle, a Lee Enfield that had been heavily decorated, principally with silver, was slung over his right shoulder. Over his left he carried a British Thompson gun, and around his waist in a belt were at least sixty rounds of ammunition for both. Lamb was certain he would also have had a knife tucked into his boot and wondered where he had put the grenades he undoubtedly carried.
Manoli Bandouvas looked Lamb up and down and nodded. ‘You are Kapitan Lamb? Lamb? We say “Arni”.’ He laughed, and it was echoed by his men. ‘I am a farmer, Kapitan Lamb. I keep sheep. Many hundreds of sheep. And lambs. Arni. It does not sound much like the name of a warrior. Baa, baa.’ More laughter.
Lamb rose to the slight, but steeled himself, determined not to let it go any further. He was well aware that this was a culture driven by honour feuds and that the slightest slur would mean time wasted in a useless vendetta. Bandouvas had had his say and had impressed his men by besting a British officer. That was enough for Lamb.
He spoke calmly and with a smile. ‘You will know, Kapitan Bandouvas, being a great and experienced leader of men, that often things are not as they might seem, or as they might sound.’
Bandouvas said nothing for a while. Then he smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, that is right. And if they say you are a fighter, then who am I to doubt them. Good. I hear that you saved the Prince. We need men like you to kill the German cuckolds when they come.’
Good God, thought Lamb. It was as if he was being recruited by Bandouvas. This man in fancy dress was no more than a glorified bandit. But he knew that he had to play along. ‘As long as we can be of some help in your struggle, Kapitan.’
Hathaway turned to Lamb and raised his eyebrows out of sight of Bandouvas. ‘Kapitan Bandouvas has kindly offered to help me train my men here in the ways of mountain fighting. I’m sure that if you were to ask him he might do the same for your Greeks.’
Lamb smiled at him. ‘Actually I’ve just spent ten days with my NCOs training them in warfare as waged by the British army. But I grant you that some local knowledge would be useful. I might do that.’
At that moment a car drove up behind Bandouvas’ men, the driver sounding the horn. It stopped abruptly and two men emerged into the crowd, both of them heavily armed. One, the passenger, a fair-haired man in his mid-thirties, walked towards Hathaway and spoke in a loud voice that sounded as if it would have been more suited to shouting encouragement across the playing fields of an English public school.
‘Good morning, Michael. Kapitan Bandouvas, good morning. I’ve come to see what the hell’s going on over on this side of the island. Are you aware that there is absolutely no wireless communication between west and east? It’s absurd. We are fighting a war in the manner of nineteenth-century warfare. No, I’m mistaken. Ancient warfare. We are Priam’s men. Well, I’ll tell you one thing, all of you. You’re a damn sight better off here than where I am at Heraklion. Brigadier Chappel’s HQ is a cave. Nothing more. I’ve just come from there, via your Colonel Kippenberger and his lavish mansion. I ask you, a cave, between the town and the aerodrome. It is neither secure nor suitable.’
The man, who was a fraction under six foot tall and of slim, athletic build, was dressed in an officer’s service uniform, complete with Sam Browne, but he had added a few stylistic twists of his own. His peaked service cap was worn at a rakish angle and he wore a rifle slung like a Cretan mountaineer’s, around his shoulders, and a cartridge belt round his middle. Most noticeably, though, he carried at his side, thrust into an improvised holster on the Sam Browne, a leather-covered scabbard containing what Lamb recognised to be unmistakably a swordstick. Clearly he was a British officer, but, thought Lamb, a temporary officer rather than a regular. And there was something more to his appearance – a strange squint.
‘Came to see your GOC, Brigadier Weston. Couldn’t be found. Saw Colonel Kippenberger instead. Nice chap. Just offering my services, Michael. If needed.’
He turned to Bandouvas. ‘Yasou, Manoli. What brings you here?’ He clapped the big Greek on the back and they began to talk rapidly in Greek, and soon both of them were laughing. Lamb caught the word ‘arni’ again and thought he could see them both looking in his direction.
Hathaway saw the danger. ‘Sorry, John. Let me introduce you. Captain Peter Lamb, John Pendlebury. Peter, John here is the authority on everything on Crete, ancient and modern.’
Pendlebury shook his head and smiled. ‘Nonsense. I’m an archaeologist.’
Hathaway continued. ‘John was Vice Consul until recently, and now he’s Liaison. Which means he helps the Greeks. Like me. But he’s in a different sector.’
Pendlebury extended his hand. Lamb took it, and as their eyes met Lamb realised what it was that gave Pendlebury that curious squint. His left eye was made out of glass, and long habit had encouraged his right eyebrow to become permanently raised, as if he were perpetually questioning something. It was with this expression on his face that he now looked Lamb square in the eye, with disarming candour.
‘John Pendlebury. A pleasure.’
‘Peter Lamb, North Kents.’
‘Ah, the famous Jackals. What on earth are you doing here? This garrison’s all Kiwis and Aussies. There are few Jocks too, up at Heraklion, and the Welsh of cour
se, but not your lot. Thought you’d got away to Alex.’
‘Most of us did, but some of us missed the boat. Jerries took the canal before we could catch up. We came via Athens.’
‘Did you, by Jove? Must have been a little hairy. Haven’t been to the old place for a while.’ He looked wistful. ‘I’m actually in Liaison with Brigadier Chappel, at Heraklion. You’re the chap who saved Prince Peter, aren’t you? KOed a drunk squaddie. They can be an ugly lot, our soldiers, can’t they, when their blood’s up.’
‘Or their drink.’
Pendlebury laughed. ‘And it’s all this cheap wine. Krassi. The men can’t take it. Getting “krassied up”, they call it. Drink it as if it were beer. You should try it, though. They pass down the method to family and friends. You never know how strong it actually is.’
‘What about raki? I thought that was the local drink.’
‘It is. The local name is tsikoudia and it’s not at all like the stuff you find in Greece or Turkey. It’s brewed in very old breweries and back yards from the leftovers from wine production. Basically it’s the seeds and skins from grapes. The sweeter the raki, the stronger it is. The Greeks down it in one. But listen, here’s a real tip. If you’re going to drink a lot of it or drink it over a long night, you’re best to drink a little water with it. Or even the same amount. Then you can keep going for as long as you like. But for heaven’s sake don’t switch to drinking other alcohol like beers or wines in the same evening. I tell you, Lamb, if you do that you’ll wake up with the worst hangover of your life. An absolute corker.’
He turned to Hathaway.
‘You know that Freyberg has forbidden me to move the arms and explosives from Suda island without his specific, written permission?’
Before Hathaway could reply he turned back to Lamb. ‘Now will you kindly tell me how the hell I’m expected to arm the civilian resistance, home guard, call them what you will? They were his idea in the first place, and now all my efforts are being blocked. And why? I’ll tell you why. Because the government is frightened that if we arm the Cretans they’ll keep the guns and then revolt again like they did in ’35.’
