by Iain Gale
‘Taking cover from shellfire inside a house – he should know better. Eadie.’
‘Sir.’ Charles Eadie was winding a bandage round his head.
‘What the devil have you done?’
‘Bit of a headache, sir. Silly, really.’
‘Yes, it was. Bloody silly. Right. That was the softening up. They’ll be on us soon. Let’s make them welcome, shall we? How many of those Jerry mortar rounds have we left?’
‘Ten, sir. But we’ve a good deal of ammo for the machine-guns.’
‘Right. Set them up to enfilade the road, and put the mortars well to the rear. Has anyone got any more Schmeisser mags?’
‘Here, sir, have some of mine.’ Eadie opened up a canvas bag on his shoulder and Lamb saw that it was full of magazines.
‘Good God. Where the devil d’you get all those? Thank you.’
He pulled out six and stuffed them into his pockets and belt. ‘Sarnt-Major, better get the men in position. We’ve no time to clean up this mess, ghastly though it is.’
But for once Lamb was wrong. As they looked into the olive groves his men were unable to spot any advancing enemy. The same seemed to be true along the entire line. The hours ticked past. They did manage to bury the dead and get the worst cases back to the field hospital. Ten. Midday. Then at 12.30 precisely the air filled again with black silhouettes and they dived for cover. This raid lasted fifteen minutes, but hardly had they had time to climb from the trenches than another attack came in. Lying flat on the trench floor, Lamb looked at his watch. 1.15. This would be it. A short last burst, and then they would come. As soon as the planes climbed and banked away into the blue he jumped up and peered through his field glasses up at the hills. Slowly, green-grey figures began to move across the landscape.
‘This is it, boys. Here they come. Get ready.’
He could hear the wounded from the last attack, but there was no time to be lost now. They and the rest of the dead would have to wait. As the enemy came on, the covering fire began. What had seemed intense fire before was now as nothing in comparison as the Spandaus opened up at long range among the mortars and artillery. The Germans seemed to have captured at least two British Bofors guns and the familiar pop could be heard above the din. Lamb timed the bursts. Ten in thirty seconds, twenty every minute. And now the infantry were closing upon them. From their rear he heard the air-sucking whoosh of a shell and one of the British batteries behind Galatas opened up. There was a ragged cheer but it was short lived as more enemy rounds came crashing in. Lamb looked up to his right, and on Wheat Hill, to the west of the village, he could see huge explosions among the defending trenches of the 18th New Zealanders.
Valentine summed it up. ‘They’re copping it, sir. Glad I’m not up there.’
As they watched, khaki-clad figures began to emerge from the top of the hill and, still firing, walk slowly back down the hill towards the village.
‘Christ, they’ve broken.’
‘No, no, they haven’t. Look, they’re falling back in order. They’re withdrawing. Look.’
But then Mays pointed to the figures following up the New Zealanders, for the top of Wheat Hill had turned into a mass of field grey.
Lamb called out. ‘The right flank’s falling back. Wheel to the right. Refuse the right.’
The men who heard him, some of his own, a few Greeks and part of the composite battalion that was on their right wing, began to turn and make ready to form a line with the now retreating 18th. Lamb could see the attackers now. These were not paratroopers. That was easy enough to tell from the shape of their helmets. These troops wore the more usual Wehrmacht infantry pattern, though there were other things about them that suggested they were another elite unit – not least the speed at which they advanced.
Bennett pointed to their front where the Divisional Petrol Company had been standing alone in defence of Pink Hill. ‘Look, sir, they’re pulling back.’
It was true; the stalwart mechanics who had done so much over the past few days to hold up the German advance were finally falling back. They seemed to be pivoting as they did so on an axis of the hill itself, in order to join up with the remnants of the 18th.
Bennett whistled. ‘That’s as good a manoeuvre as I’ve seen on parade at Tonbridge. That’s something for a bunch of grease monkeys.’
Lamb turned on him. ‘Oy, just you mind who you’re calling a grease monkey. You know what I do when I’m not playing at soldiers.’
Bennett smiled. ‘Sorry, sir. Forgot you was one yourself. But look at them.’
Lamb watched, impressed, as they carried out their manoeuvre, denying every inch of ground to the advancing enemy. He saw one man stand and fire a Bren gun from the hip, spraying the hill and the road that ran across it, and watched as the Germans dived for cover. Several failed to get up. The man pulled out an empty magazine, jammed in another and fired off another long burst, and then another. Then finally, with no magazines left, the man ran back to his comrades, leaving the hillside covered in crumpled grey-green mounds, most of them dead.
The enemy had gained some ground and with it closer positions on which to site his mortars. Lamb yelled to the men, ‘Fall back into the village. Try to find cover.’
As he said this, several mortar shells landed close by. One man was hit by a small fragment and fell but managed to get up again. More shells came in, smashing into buildings and sending stones flying into the street to become deadly projectiles in themselves. The southern outskirts of Galatas were burning now, and Lamb’s thoughts turned again to Anna. He hoped with all his heart that she had got away, not just for her safety but because he did not want her to witness the destruction of her home. Slowly the remains of his company fell back into Galatas. They were nearing the square now, close to Anna’s kafeneio, and glancing to his rear momentarily Lamb glimpsed the white façade of the church. It seemed surreal that, despite everything that was happening around it, the church’s bells were pealing out to summon the devout.
‘Some bloody hope,’ said Valentine. ‘His congregation’s scarpered.’
Lamb shook his head. ‘Not entirely. It’s Sunday, remember?’
‘Really? God. That seems a long time ago.’
‘What’s that, Valentine?’
‘Church on Sunday. A sense of normality. Be nice to get it back.’
‘Were you ever that normal, Valentine?’
‘No, not really, sir.’
There was a whoosh as an artillery shell scudded across the sky above them and hit home in the rear of the village. At the same time, as they watched in awe and surprise, a line of villagers, mostly old men, women and small children, all of them dressed in black and preceded by a priest bearing a cross and four other men in black robes, came from a building near the back of the church and walked through its tall doors.
Valentine was incredulous. ‘They can’t be serious, can they?’
‘I’m afraid they are. Perhaps it’s their way of fighting back. The power of prayer.’
‘Mumbo-jumbo. No offence, sir. But really, it’s all a lie, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? How can you be sure?’
‘If your number’s up, your number’s up. That’s my belief.’
‘Careful, Valentine. You’re beginning to talk like a soldier. Can’t have that.’
Eadie interrupted them. ‘They’re getting a bit close now, don’t you think?’
He was right. From the edge of the town they could hear the rattle of small-arms fire.
Lamb waved to them. ‘Right, we’ll fall back on the square. On the church.’
They turned to walk across the square and found their way blocked by a motley collection of soldiery, headed by a New Zealand officer. The men were dressed in every manner of uniform; some of them even seemed to be wearing civilian clothes. One with a forage cap on his head wore a striped jersey, another was clad in a battledress top above brightly coloured slacks and wore sandals on his feet. A less warlike group of infantry Lamb had never seen, even
though all were properly armed.
Valentine spoke. ‘Blimey, sir. Now we’re really scraping the barrel. That’s the Kiwi concert party. I saw them at the picture house in Canea. They weren’t bad either, mind you. Don’t know if they can fight, though.’
‘They seem keen enough to have a go. We need every man we can get.’
Their officer called to Lamb. ‘Sir, can we join you? I mean, could you take command?’
Lamb looked at him. He was a second lieutenant, a mere boy of only about nineteen and obviously out of his depth in this situation. Lamb reckoned that he had been lucky to survive thus far. ‘Of course, Lieutenant. I’m Captain Lamb. North Kents.’
‘Lieutenant Riley, sir. We’re the …’
‘I know. You’re the ENSA concert party. My sergeant here’s a fan of yours. Well done in getting yourselves properly armed. Stick with us and you’ll have a sporting chance.’
He turned to Eadie. ‘Charles, you take care of this lot, will you? Right. Let’s try to form a defensive position across the square. We might have to use the church.’
They were directly outside the kafeneio now and Lamb could see that it had been shuttered up and padlocked. So far, though, it seemed to have remained intact and there was no sign of any inhabitants. He wondered whether Anna was in the church. He did not have her down as being over-religious, but then war did strange things to people. They moved across the square towards the church, collecting the concert party on their way, and were forming a line behind whatever cover they could find when the first elements of the Petrol Company began to enter the square, firing behind them as they came. Seeing Lamb’s men they made for the position, and within moments Lamb saw why. Behind them came a mass of the enemy, oblivious to the target they presented, running and firing in pursuit.
He shouted, ‘Covering fire. Give covering fire.’
The Jackals began to snipe at the oncoming Germans, and Lamb saw some of the shots strike home. They were not yet in effective Schmeisser range so only the riflemen were firing. They were joined by the concert party, and Lamb was impressed by the number they brought down. The German bullets zipped and cracked off the low whitewashed stone wall before the church. The remaining Greeks with them were firing too now, and the combined effort forced the German assault party to take cover inside the houses at the far end of the square.
On the left side of the square more New Zealanders began to appear, some of them badly wounded and being carried. Seeing Lamb’s men and the Greeks, they turned and formed a line from the houses on the northern side across to the centre. Behind them a man was shouting. ‘Stand for New Zealand. For New Zealand, boys.’
Lamb saw that it was no less than Colonel Kippenberger himself, his Schmeisser slung over his shoulder.
Bennett yelled out, ‘Come on then. If they can do it for New Zealand, we can do it for Dartford, boys, and Dagenham. Up the Jackals.’ They fired into the Germans with new vigour, making every shot count. They had smashed their way into the kafeneio now and were firing down from the upper windows, from Anna’s bedroom. Lamb thought how strange it was that buildings and streets which had grown so familiar over the past few weeks had now become battlefields. Houses of friends were no longer dwellings but strongpoints or hazards to be taken or defended. This place was transformed, a battleground ripped from the heart of one of the most peaceful, civilised villages he had ever known.
Kippenberger was running down the line now, shouting encouragement everywhere he went. He saw Lamb. ‘Captain Lamb, glad you’re here with us. We’ve got to hold them, Lamb. If they get through this line and debouch out of the village then the whole front’s gone. Stick with it.’
Lamb’s men continued to pour fire into the houses, and he prayed that their ammo would not run out before the Jerries halted for the evening. The sun was dying now and, looking at his watch, he saw that, incredibly, four hours had passed since the first attack had come in. Around him the firing line was filled with wounded men. Looking across the square he saw one of the concert party, the man with the bright red trousers, lying in a spreading pool of blood. Lamb wiped the sweat from his forehead and fired off the Schmeisser at a group of five Germans who had run from cover and across the square in an attempt to move forward. Three went down, one jerking and twitching on the ground, and the other two were taken out by single shots of rifle fire.
Suddenly to his left a man jerked back, hit by fire from one of the snipers. It was Valentine. Slowly, he raised himself from the ground and grabbed at his left arm and his shirt, which had been ripped open by a bullet just below the bicep and was stained with blood. ‘It’s all right, sir. Think I’ll live.’
‘Get it seen to, Sarnt. Get back and find an MO. Ask the colonel if you can’t.’
There was a shout and a sudden surge of grey-green uniforms through the gap between the houses. Lamb yelled out, ‘All of you. My men and the Kiwis. With me. We’re pulling back.’
Still firing, they backed away as far as they could from the advancing enemy. At the church they found the doors open and the congregation streaming out, their faith now interrupted by the need for earthly salvation. They ran headlong to the rear of Lamb’s small force, which continued to pull back. More men fell: three of the Greeks and two more Kiwis, along with another of Lamb’s men, Dennis, a bright lad of eighteen, shot through the head.
Another quarter mile and they were clear of the village. Turning, Lamb saw two of their light tanks advancing down the road.
‘Get behind the tanks. Take cover behind our tanks.’ He could see two groups of men in khaki on either side of the road, picking out what cover they could. This then was the front line.
At the edge of the village the Germans stopped and Lamb and his men took the chance to run as fast as they could for the tanks. They half fell into the new positions. The tanks had stopped now and were spraying the German-held houses from their Vickers machine-guns. They began to move again, and Lamb watched from behind a wall as they entered the village. He could hear the sound of their machine-guns. Looking to the rear he saw Kippenberger in conversation with a New Zealand captain and imagined what he was saying as he pointed into the village. The only course of action now was to try to retake Galatas.
He turned to Bennett. ‘We’ve got them pinned them down, Sarnt-Major. A couple of mortars would have them out of the houses. And then what have they got? Two companies just come up, by the looks of it. And we’d give it a go, wouldn’t we?’
‘Yes, Kapitan. I think we would.’ But it wasn’t Bennett’s voice that came from behind him.
Lamb turned and saw, crouching to his rear, the huge figure of Manoli Bandouvas, complete with tea-cosy hat and moustaches. ‘Kapitan Bandouvas. Yasou. You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you.’
Bandouvas grinned and Lamb noticed that he now had a long scar running down the left side of his face. Bandouvas noticed his interest. ‘I had an encounter with a paratrooper. Don’t worry, he came off the worst.’
‘Are your men here?’
Bandouvas nodded. ‘Yes. All of them. Look. Grigorakis, Petrakogioros, Bardakis. They’re all here, Kapitan, here to fight with you against the Germanos. We are up in the church tower and on the roof.’
‘It was you. You just about saved our bacon.’
‘And we have new recruits too.’
He moved aside and Lamb saw that there were perhaps twenty other armed men behind him, and a few women. Among them stood Anna, a rifle and bandolier slung over her shoulder. Her white shirt was covered in blood. She walked towards him. ‘Hello, Peter.’ She smiled.
‘Are you all right? You haven’t been wounded?’
‘No. Not my blood. But you have.’ She pointed at his head. ‘I heard from Andreas.’
He felt the bandage at his forehead. He had quite forgotten it. Lamb turned back to Bandouvas. ‘But I thought you would be with Pendlebury. Where is he?’
Bandouvas shook his head. ‘You didn’t hear? I thought you would.’
‘He’s not?�
��
‘Yes, it happened near Heraklion. There was a big battle. Did you know?’
‘No, we’ve had no contact. WT’s out, and they’ve cut the wires.’
‘There was a very big battle. The Germans attacked the city and it looked as if they would take it but then Pendlebury led a charge. We were there, on the old walls. It’s where I got this.’
He felt the scar. ‘We all charged. He used his swordstick. It was wonderful. But then he left the city with just his driver and Kapitan Satanas. After that he left Satanas and ran into some Germans at Kaminia. He got out of the car and climbed a spur to look down on the German position. They were closer than he thought and opened fire. Pendlebury and the driver fired back. Some of the Greeks came up – regulars who had been with us in Heraklion. They all fired on the Germans. They were still firing when the Stukas came over, and he was wounded in the chest. They captured him and shot him in cold blood. A British officer.’
‘I’m so sorry. He was a good man. He did much.’
‘It was how he would have wanted it. He was a great man. Truly great. And soon we shall avenge him.’
There was the noise of tracks on the road and Lamb turned to see that the tanks were returning. He had a better look at them now: two old Mark VIs, built between the wars and pretty much useless as tanks. Totally outdated. An armour-piercing bullet fired from an ordinary rifle would go straight through them. They were really only effective against ordinary bullets. But Lamb knew that their value lay in boosting morale. The tanks reached their position, and one of the hatches opened and a fair-haired officer jumped down, quite close to Lamb.
Kippenberger went up to him. ‘We have to retake the village, Farran. It’s our only hope.’
The tank commander spoke in a British accent. ‘We can try, sir, but the place is stiff with Jerries. They’re everywhere, in the orchard behind the church, behind chimney stacks, on all the roofs and in the school. They’ve run up the bloody swastika by the church. I took two casualties. When we were coming back, an anti-tank rifle put a shot through the turret of my corporal’s tank. Got him and the gunner. They’re not dead but the tank’s U S without a commander and a gunner.’
