by Iain Gale
‘Yes, sir. Perfectly.’
Lamb was about to mention the fact that he was on a mission from Colonel ‘R’, but experience had taught him that in such a situation, with an officer in the field, he was unlikely to be believed. He let the major go on.
‘Good. Right. Well, now I’m giving you some advice, and you’d do well to take it. Stick where you are, Captain. God knows what they’re going to throw at us today. But when they do, you and your men are surely going to be on the receiving end. And you’re going to stop them.’
However, the Germans did not attack again, not for the entire day. For a couple of hours Lamb sat in the command trench and at the table behind the wall and walked through the olives checking on his positions and thought about everything that had happened since he had arrived on Crete. The sun beat down on them and he had sent a man to try to get through to the transit camp and find some fresh water. But that had been four hours ago and the runner hadn’t returned. The men had spent the morning on watch, playing cards and snatching some sleep when they could.
Valentine had cracked a few jokes. ‘I suppose you could called it a “sitzkrieg”, sir. Couldn’t you? They don’t seem to want to do anything.’ He seemed in a particularly sombre mood and Lamb knew he was dwelling on something. Finally it came out, almost as a casual remark.
‘Doesn’t seem right, sir, does it? Mr Wentworth dying like that ’cos we weren’t here. Not as if we were doing anything useful either. Just off to save the King.’
Lamb said nothing.
‘I mean, what use is a king without a kingdom? Better off forgetting him, I say. What earthly good have kings ever done for their people?’
Still Lamb refused to be drawn. He turned to Smart. ‘I’m sure they’ll attack soon enough. Eh, Smart? That’s it. Always good to face the enemy with shiny shoes.’
The men who were within earshot laughed. ‘We’d better make the most of this. It won’t last forever.’
Sure enough, within the hour the Germans had begun to mortar the slopes of Pink Hill from their positions on Cemetery Hill.
The shells whooshed in and landed with a sickening crump, and wherever they landed, almost without fail, someone screamed. Mays was beside Lamb at the forward OP. ‘Blooming heck, sir. How much ammo did they bring with them?’
‘Enough. And it’s my guess they’ve a great deal more.’
A mortar round came over their heads and landed to the left in a trench. There was an explosion followed by screams. Lamb yelled, ‘Stretcher-bearers,’ but he knew there were precious few of them around. ‘Medic. Get a medic.’
He scuttled over, head down in the hail of missiles, reached the scene and almost vomited. Two of his men, Webb and Lyne from Wilkinson’s section, were lying in the bottom of the trench in a pool of their own blood. One of them had had his head practically severed by a piece of shrapnel. The other, Lyne, had lost his forearm and been blinded. He was screaming, high and long. Corporal Wilkinson himself was sitting on the edge of the trench into which he had been climbing when the round had hit. He was looking at a hole in his stomach from which his entrails were protruding and trying to stuff them back in.
Lamb yelled again, ‘Medic.’ Two Kiwis came dodging through the falling tree branches which were being severed by more incoming rounds. Between them they carried a makeshift stretcher of a door of a house. It was covered with dried blood.
Lamb turned back and hurried into the command trench. Gradually the shelling ceased, to be replaced by the moans of the wounded.
Bennett had given him the casualty figures. They had been down to twenty-two men before this, including himself. Plus the Greeks, but they’d lost twelve of them, perhaps more. Well, you could add a few more to the tally now. Wentworth was dead and with him Hale, who had come with them through France. And now Wilkinson, another French veteran, and the two privates. Lamb knew there would be more. He waited for the reports.
‘All secure, Sarnt-Major?’
‘Yes, sir. Perimeter’s tight now, sir. We took five more casualties, sir. Lyne and Webb …’
‘Yes, I saw them. And Corporal Wilkinson.’
Bennett looked at him and shook his head. ‘Yes, sir. And two of the new lads from Cross’ section, Waterman and Butcher. And some of the Greeks, sir, but I couldn’t tell you how many.’
‘So we must be down to seventeen of us now, Sarnt-Major. That’s too bad. Some bloody Company.’
Bennett shook his head and lit a smoke. He had seen his officer getting a dressing down from the Kiwi major, and he resented it. And now this.
That had been no way for the major to treat Captain Lamb. In Bennett’s eyes he was an exemplary officer. One of the best. The men would have followed him anywhere. For that jumped-up New Zealander to have ripped him off a strip was just wrong, however you looked at it. Yes, they had gone off on a wild goose chase, but how, he asked himself, had the captain been able to know that? Captain Hathaway had seemed sound enough to him too, and Bennett prided himself on being a good judge of officers. At least they had killed a few Jerries, and hadn’t they got what Hathaway had been looking for? Lamb was being too hard on himself. And it hadn’t been his fault about poor Mr Wentworth. Bennett had thought that boy was marked from the start, had just been waiting for the moment to come. Old soldiers could see that sometimes. You just knew.
Bennett himself was getting restless. Being shelled and mortared was worse than being in the thick of it, and the lull between made you think too much. He kept on wondering about those things that never crossed your mind when you were in combat: his wife, Vera, expecting their first, at home in London; the poor bloody German kids strung up in their parachutes; and, worst of all, whether he would make it out of this lot and ever see Blighty and Vera again. He wondered if he would ever see his own child.
He turned to Lamb. ‘I really thought they’d try again, sir. I don’t like it. What’s Jerry playing at?’
‘That’s just it, Sarnt-Major. He’s not really playing at anything. Apart from the fact that you might say they’re playing with us.’
‘But they’re not giving up, sir, are they? They’re just getting ready to come again. Do you think we’ll hold them? With this lot?’
‘Yes, Sarnt-Major, I do, and I’m sure you do too. But I’m not sure I know what we would gain. We might have won the day. We took back the hill and knocked out some guns and mortars, but think about the bigger battle. The Jerries have got time on their side. Stands to reason. They’ve landed more men today, and I dare say more supplies and heavy weapons, and if they carry on doing that then eventually they’ll outnumber us and outgun us.’
‘All we can do is pray for a miracle. That, or more reinforcements to allow us to mount a proper counter-attack.’
Bennett changed the subject. ‘Did you see Colonel Kippenberger today, sir? Walking around the top of the hill, sir, bold as brass, carrying that captured Schmeisser of his. Just like yours, sir. He was just talking, sir. Talking to the men. Now that’s an officer for you. That’s the way to do it.’
‘Yes, he’s a real leader. Makes a difference to the men. With a man like that to lead them they think they are indestructible.’
‘Let’s hope the Jerries think so too, sir.’
Lamb looked at the ground for a moment. ‘Tell me, what would you do, Sarnt-Major?’
‘Sir?’
‘You know the score. In that canvas bag over there are some bits of tin and pieces of paper that somehow I’ve got to make sure get to His Majesty the King of Greece. But how can I do that when I’ve been ordered to stay here and fight?’
‘That’s a hard one on you, sir, and no mistake. As I see it, both ways you lose.’
Lamb shook his head. ‘There’s sure to be an answer somewhere. I’ve just got to find it, and soon. One thing I will tell you, Sarnt-Major. I’m damned if I’m going to sit here on my arse for days and then find that the battle’s been lost and we’re all in the bag.’
The night was warm and Lamb lay propped u
p against his kit bag and the King’s haversack. The cicadas seemed noisier than ever, and a barn owl was obviously high in one of the nearby trees, calling for its mate which answered at intervals throughout the night. He could also hear the men in the trenches around him as they snored and mumbled through the small hours. Of course he had not been able to take Bennett into his full confidence, but just to have told him about the fact that he was torn between delivering the King’s medals and fighting on here had helped. He drifted in and out of sleep, troubled by dreams in which Wentworth’s face kept appearing. He was aware of the change of sentries and then of the dawn coming up on the hills over to the right, and beyond them the towering mass of the mountains. Finally he fell into a good, deep sleep, but it seemed only minutes before Smart’s hand was on his shoulder.
‘Sir. Captain Lamb, sir. Nice cup of tea for you?’
Lamb muttered his thanks and took the mug in both hands. His neck and back both ached, and he peered at the landscape down the hill. There was nothing to be seen but the interminable vineyards. Far down in the valley, though, there was ant-like movement going on as men moved around, and he guessed it was the Germans standing to. He looked at his watch. It was 6.30. Around him the men were beginning to stir. The last sentries of the night had come in and reported no movement. But Lamb knew they could not afford to sit it out for another day. If the Germans did not mount another assault on the hill it was inevitable that he and his men, along with the other defenders, must sally out of their trenches and counter-attack. He had still not resolved his dilemma and he half hoped that the attack in which they must be involved might come sooner rather than later and remove the problem.
Smart bought him some shaving water. ‘Here you are, sir. Mr Eadie says could he have it after you and to tell you he’ll be using it to wash in too. Just so you know. Have you heard, sir? The Kiwis have cancelled the attack from the forward position. 19th Battalion.’
‘What?’
‘The attack they postponed from last night, sir, where Mr Wentworth was killed. They’ve stopped the attack. They’re pulling everyone back.’
‘Where did you get this?’
‘Batman of one of their officers, sir. He keeps me up to date.’
So he was right. And poor Wentworth, too. It had been madness to entrench down there, so close to the enemy lines.
Behind him, from around Canea, he heard the sound of explosions now as the Luftwaffe launched another raid. How very different it would have been, he thought, had the RAF managed to maintain a presence on the island. But they were long gone. The planes that had not been shot out of the skies or destroyed on the ground were shipped off to Malta and Cyprus by night to keep them intact for whatever came next.
He had just finished a meagre breakfast of corned beef and biscuit when Charles Eadie came up. ‘Message from the colonel, sir. We’re going to attack.’
‘When? What on earth with?’
‘Says we’ve got to kick them off Cemetery Hill before they do worse to us with the mortars than they did yesterday. I suppose he has a point, sir. That was merry hell.’
Lamb rubbed at his tired face, then looked up at Eadie. ‘Well, thank God for that, Charles. At least we’ll have a chance to make a difference. I suppose we must outnumber them still. They can’t have flown any reinforcements in yet, can they? I just hope they haven’t got all their heavy weapons, though on yesterday’s showing they must have a good deal.’
He reached out and grabbed hold of the Schmeisser he had taken from the dead German. It was a lovely weapon, in good condition. Lamb had managed to get a handful of magazine clips from Bunce and had stuffed them into his battledress pockets. He was sure that when the time came it would do the job. And it pleased his sense of irony that the Germans would be killed by their own beautifully made weapon. He looked back at Eadie, whom he noticed had also appropriated a similar submachine-gun, which he wore slung around his neck.
‘Of course, Charles, we do have right on our side.’
‘But you know as well as I do, sir, that no amount of “right” will do us any good against an 81 mill mortar and a nest of MG34s.’
‘Talking of which, how are we doing with salvaged weapons? I see you’ve got yourself one of these.’ He patted his gun.
‘Yes, sir. Managed to pick it up in the garden back at the King’s villa. Very nice, aren’t they? Actually, we’re not doing too badly at all, sir. We managed to get two whole canisters of Jerry weapons. That’s six heavy machine-guns and a couple of the smaller mortars. There’s a reasonable amount of ammo with them too. Very considerate of the Jerries, to drop it in our laps.’
‘Yes, very. Charles, I’m going to give command of Hugh’s platoon to Mays. He deserves it, and he’s one of the best I’ve got, but that will have to wait until he gets back from the Field Hospital. Who d’you think I should give it to in the meantime?’
‘Well, I’d say the sarnt-major, sir, but we can’t really spare him. What about Valentine?’
‘What, and cause a bloody riot? He’d refuse.’
‘It would be a battlefield order. He wouldn’t dare.’
‘Are you so sure?’
‘Hook, then. It would mean moving him from No. 3 platoon, of course.’
‘And replace him with Simmonds? Yes, it might work. Thank you, Charles. Most helpful.’
There was a shout from the sentry to their right. ‘Runner coming in, sir.’
The man, a New Zealand lance-corporal, came leaping into their position and blurted out a breathless message.
‘From Major Bassett, sir. He says would you support Captain Hathaway and provide the left wing of the attack. The captain has the 6th Greek on his right, all fully armed, and he’s leading his own Greeks in the centre. The major needs you on the left, sir.’
Lamb paused for a moment, counted to ten, then spoke. ‘Yes, Lance-Corporal. You can tell the major that I’ll be there. We’ll support the left flank. When does he intend to go?’
‘He’ll give the command by whistle, sir. But H Hour is at 1 p.m.’
‘Fine. We’ll be waiting.’
Whistle signals, thought Lamb. He reached into his top pocket and pulled out his own silver tin whistle. Right. They would see what the Greeks had learnt over the past couple of weeks. He would do the same in the attack.
The runner turned and ran back the way he had come.
Lamb turned to Eadie. ‘Well, 1300 hours it is, then. Had some breakfast?’
‘Just got in from the forward post, sir.’
‘Of course. See what Smart can find you. Better be quick. We don’t want to miss the party, do we? Oh, and by the way, pass the word. I’ll be using whistle signals.’
Valentine came with a message for Eadie, something about a jammed gun, and after the lieutenant had gone to deal with it and scrounge whatever food he could, he turned to Lamb.
‘Are we attacking then, sir?’
‘Yes. We go in at 1300. We’re on the left. Captain Hathaway’s Greeks will be on our right.’
Valentine smiled. ‘That man’s got a way with him, wouldn’t you say, sir?’
‘Yes, Valentine, you could say that.’
Lamb knew that Valentine had immediately sensed his annoyance that Hathaway and his rabble were taking centre stage in the attack. How he had managed to pull that off, God only knew, but there it was. Hathaway would lead the attack, and good luck to him. It irked Lamb that they should have fallen out. Lamb had liked the man at first, had thought he had seen in him a soldier like himself, a man willing to bend the rule book when necessary and to use real initiative, but the business at the villa had soured their relationship. Now, however, he most definitely saw him as a creature of two parts. On the one hand he was undoubtedly brave; on the other he was ruthlessly ambitious and eager to cover himself in glory at another man’s expense, even if his actions were to threaten that other man’s credibility as an officer and mean his ruination as a soldier. Now, though, was no time for spite, or for awkward questions.
12
Lamb looked at his watch. Three minutes to H hour.
Bennett snapped to beside him. ‘Men are standing to, sir.’
They were on the start line, if you could have called it that. A line had been taken along the lead trenches, and Lamb’s men with their Greeks were standing loosely where it ran. They held their rifles at the ready and looked, he thought, as had any line of infantry about to go into battle for the past 300 years. He was damn sure they felt that way, because he certainly did.
He did not think the Germans were yet aware of what was about to hit them. Their mortars had not yet started up, though he knew they would feel their bite when at last they began to advance.
The line seemed to go perfectly silent for an instant, and then from just to their right and rear a whistle blew three times, then a fourth, and then again very fast, and at the same time from their right the ground seemed to erupt. Dozens of Greek troops seemed to rise from nowhere, and with them, to Lamb’s initial surprise, came civilians, scores of them.
At their head walked Hathaway, dressed as before in his yellow jersey and with his tin whistle in his mouth. He blew it, and from among Lamb’s men someone spoke as they moved off to the attack.
‘Blimey, it’s the bleedin’ Pied Piper.’
‘Shut it, Dawlish.’
‘Sorry, Sarge.’
Perhaps even more bizarre a sight than Hathaway himself were the band that followed on behind him. Their core was provided by half of the 6th Greeks, but this was supplemented in number by civilians. A Greek farmer in a shirt, waistcoat and boots advanced down the hill brandishing a shotgun on to which he had tied a serrated-edged bread knife. Behind him came a woman wrapped in a black shawl, waving above her head a huge garden spade. Another man held a pitchfork, and behind him Lamb saw an Orthodox monk in a flowing robe, armed with a rifle and an axe tucked into his broad belt. Others had whatever knives, rocks and clubs they had been able to find in the rush to get to the Germans. There were young boys with game guns and a man in a business suit, tieless and carrying a scythe.
