by Iain Gale
From out of nowhere, it seemed, a company of British infantry appeared, marching smartly along the road in the opposite direction. Lamb stood and watched as they passed by.
The Aussie spoke. ‘Bloody hell. That’s it then. They must have put in Force Reserve. That’s the bloody Welch. On parade as usual. But I’ll tell you something: they fight bloody well too. Better get back to the men. God knows how we’re going to get off this bloody island now, though. Good luck, mate.’
They walked on, through the streets of Mournies, as quickly as they could, dodging to the side of the occasional truck and carrier, moving swiftly round the black-clad Cretan civilians who dawdled in front. Coming to a junction, they stopped as, crossing their path from left to right, came a convoy. It was led by a Jeep in which sat an officer of the RAMC and his driver and behind them two wounded men, both with their heads completely swathed in bandages. Behind the Jeep came a field ambulance, and behind that an open 3-ton truck filled with people. They were civilians, and as they passed Lamb could not help but look in. What he saw made him shiver. A mother was cradling her daughter whose bright golden hair was matted and thick with blood. Half of the girl’s face had been torn away and a field dressing applied to the mess. Beside her sat a man holding another dressing to what appeared to be the stump of an arm. He stared past Lamb into the far distance with agonised eyes. But it was the eyes of another person that Lamb saw now. A girl of perhaps sixteen was sitting beside them, and while he could not see any visible wound her eyes said it all. He caught sight of them, and for that instant his very soul turned black. They were the eyes of despair and the eyes of hatred. For as long as he lived they would forever be for him the eyes of Crete. The pitiful convoy had passed now and he was glad that none of the women in their party had witnessed it.
It was not far to Suda. As they entered the port area Valentine whistled, for what met their eyes was a very different place from the sunlit harbour at which they had arrived a month before. The docks had gone, for all practical purposes, swept away by incessant daily bombing. In their place lay ruins, while in the bay the masts and funnels of more ships proclaimed the triumph of the Luftwaffe.
Lamb turned to speak to Bandouvas and saw that Miranda Hartley and Tsouderos’ wife were lagging far behind. The King was helping them along the road. He called out to Bandouvas. ‘I think we might rest for ten minutes.’
The Cretan nodded, and they sat on and around what remained of the harbour wall as the planes still screeched over Canea and the earth shook. Lamb took out a cigarette and lit it, and noticed for the first time that his hand was shaking. Bandouvas did the same.
Lamb spoke. ‘We should head south, along the coast, yes?’
Bandouvas nodded. ‘Yes. Down to Sfakia, through Babali Hani. How much further can they walk today?’
Lamb shrugged. ‘I don’t know. My men could manage another ten or fifteen miles.’
‘Mine too, or more. Twenty miles. But the others? Perhaps we can make it to Vrises?’
‘How far is that?’
‘Twenty kilometres.’
‘Call it thirteen miles then.’ He shook his head. ‘They’ll never do it.’
‘We’ll stop at Kalives then, before we turn off to the south. That’s only another fourteen kilometres. And it should be safe.’
Lamb nodded and walked across to where Bennett was sitting with some of his platoon. ‘Sarnt-Major, we’re going to try to get on a bit, another ten miles if the ladies can manage it.’
‘The Greek lady’s not bad on her feet, sir, and the partisans are as fit as fleas. But that Mrs Hartley’s failing a bit, and if you ask me, sir, the King’s a bit weak himself. He makes out he’s hanging back to help her, but I reckon it’s him what’s feeling the strain. Look at him.’
Lamb looked over at the King and saw that Bennett was not wrong. King George was sitting on the wall, breathing heavily as he smoked. He was smiling, but it was clear he was not feeling at his best.
‘Right. We’ll press on, nevertheless. Get them up.’
They left Suda with its ruined, blackened villas and scorched gardens and emerged on the coast road. To their right lay a domed church among a grove of olive trees. Looking at it as they passed Lamb saw that the ground was full of slit-trenches and that in the trenches were men in khaki. Someone yelled at him, ‘Get off the bloody road, you fool. The Jerry planes’ll see you.’ But he paid no attention.
Then, four hours after they had begun the destruction of Canea, the bombers stopped and turned for home. At the same time Lamb and his weary party reached a bend in the road, high above the coast. At the roadside sat two men with an anti-tank rifle, and in the vineyard which straddled the hill behind them he could see more trenches.
Seeing the motley column of British, Kiwis, civilians and Greeks, two officers, a major and a captain, both in British uniform, came forward from a sandbagged position.
The major spoke first. ‘Who the devil are you lot?’
‘Peter Lamb, sir. North Kents.’
The major stepped towards him and shook Lamb firmly by the hand. ‘Are you, by God? Good. Very good. Graham, Freddie Graham. Layforce.’ He half-turned towards the man behind him. ‘This is Evelyn Waugh, our Intelligence Officer.’
Lamb shook the captain’s hand. He might not have heard of Hartley, but he at least recalled Waugh’s name as a novelist.
The major went on, ‘So, bit of a shambles, isn’t it, eh? Of course, Lord Randolph told us the battle was as good as won before we came out by you lot, don’t you know? Somewhat different in reality, eh?’
‘Yes, sir. Somewhat different.’
‘Our CO’s away at General Weston’s HQ at 42nd Street. If you ask me, Weston’s finished. Exhaustion, d’you see. Can’t get a coherent word out of him. Colonel Bob reckons this is a bloody awful place to defend, and I agree with him. But those are our orders from on high. From Freyberg.’
Waugh, who had been lost in thought thus far, spoke at last. ‘I say … Peter Lamb. Weren’t you married to Julia Maitland?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I was.’
‘Not any more though, eh?’ He smiled, as if aware of something that Lamb was not privy to.
‘No, not any more.’
Waugh paused for a moment before speaking again. ‘How is she, Julia?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘No, of course you wouldn’t, would you? Haven’t I seen you in White’s?’
‘Possibly. I’m not a member but I did occasionally dine there with friends, before all this. Not really my world any more anyway, not since the divorce.’
‘No. Suppose not. Not really your set any more, eh? What regiment did you say you were?’
‘North Kents.’
‘Oh yes. The Jackals. Very good.’ He smiled, and Lamb felt the sneer.
They had been joined by another officer now, and Bandouvas was talking with Ryan to the major. Waugh turned to the newcomer. ‘I say, Algie, this chap was married to Julia Maitland. Peter Lamb.’
The other officer’s face brightened. ‘Were you? I say. Good man. Lovely girl. Shame she’s not yours any more. What did you say your name was?’
‘Lamb. Peter Lamb. North Kents.’
‘The Jackals, eh? Didn’t know you were here. Your chaps got a bit beaten up at Corinth, didn’t they? Where are you making for? I say, what are all these civilians doing with you? Isn’t that …? No, it can’t be. It’s Prince Peter, isn’t it? And the King. Good God. I must say hello.’
And before Lamb could stop him the officer had pushed through the men and was talking to the King. Lamb and Ryan hurried to join him.
‘You do remember, Your Majesty, don’t you? We had dinner together in London at St James’s. Two years ago. I was on guard at the palace and you were visiting the King. His Majesty had an awful problem persuading you that you couldn’t stay at Brown’s.’
The King nodded and laughed. ‘Of course, I remember. How are you?’
‘Worledge. Algie Worledge. Grenadiers.’
‘Of course. How nice to see you again. You know my cousin?’
He turned to the Prince. ‘Yes, sir. Hello again. We met in Egypt. At the embassy.’
He turned to Lamb. ‘I say, Lamb, this is extraordinary. What are you doing with the King?’
‘Taking him out of danger, if I can. We’re trying to get down to Sfakia and find the Navy. Get His Majesty away to Alex. Those are my orders, at least.’
Worledge shook his head. ‘No go, old chap. Sorry. I’d forget Sfakia if I were you. Out of the question. That road’s fine for the men, but not with the King in tow. Far too dangerous. It’s sauve qui peut down there. And Jerry will be hot on all our tails. No, I’d definitely find another route south if I were you.’ He turned back to the King. ‘I say, sir, what about that dinner at Mount Stewart? The Londonderrys.’
Lamb gave up and, leaving the King to reminisce about a previous and probably irretrievable life, went back to where Bandouvas was talking to the 2I/C.
Another officer was with them now and Lamb recognised him as their CO, Robert Laycock, ‘Colonel Bob’ to his men.
Laycock squinted at Lamb. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘Yes, sir. Peter Lamb, North Kents.’
‘Oh yes, the chap from St Valéry. I offered you a place in my commandos and you turned us down. Pity. Looks like we’re in for a bit of sport here. What exactly are you doing?’
‘I’ve orders to escort the King of Greece to an evacuation vessel, sir.’
Laycock raised his eyebrows. ‘Have you, by Jove. Someone else got to you then. Top secret and all that.’
‘No, not really, sir. I’m just obeying orders.’
Laycock laughed. ‘Witty too. Shame we don’t have you aboard, Lamb. Where is His Highness?’
Not for the first time, Lamb was glad he had refused Laycock’s offer of a place in his force of commandos. Even when Laycock had offered to take on Bennett too, and Smart, Lamb had said no. He was a regular soldier, bound by unbreakable bonds to his regiment, his battalion and his company. Besides, if Waugh’s form of wit was anything to go by, that form of soldiering was certainly not for him.
Ryan had taken Laycock to the King and Lamb heard the colonel’s distinctive voice. ‘No, Your Majesty. I really wouldn’t advise it. The major’s quite right.’
Lamb walked across to them.
‘I was just telling His Majesty, Lamb, that the road to Sfakia is quite unsuitable for your party, and the major here agrees with me. I do have an idea, though. Where’s your map?’
Eadie produced the map and they gathered round in an impromptu ‘O’ group. Laycock pointed. ‘Look here. The Jerries have taken our left flank as far as Galatas and reduced Canea to a ruin. They’ll be there soon in force. They’re also advancing here, up the Alikianos road, and there are more reinforcements being landed all the time at Maleme. Mountain troops as far as we know, and damned good. Problem is there are pockets of their paratroops too here, at Rethymno, and at Heraklion. They’ll be trying to break out, and it won’t be long before they try to come round and cut us off by meeting up with the main body. If you want my opinion your best bet is to go back up to Canea before they get there and then head off down here.’ He pointed to a small road south, some miles west of their intended route.
Laycock looked at Bandouvas. ‘Is that possible, Kapitan?’
Bandouvas nodded and scratched at the stubble on his chin. ‘It is possible. It may not be desirable, but it may be possible. Yes.’
Laycock turned and began to talk again to the King. Lamb looked back to the map and studied the route proposed by the colonel, who for all his faults seemed to him to be the one officer fully apprised of all the facts, or as many as could be known. First, he thought, they would have to get back from where they were, through Suda, back to Canea, with whatever dangers that might hold for them. Not least they would be moving towards the main German forces that must by now be closing in on the town. Then, branching off to the south, they would take to a path off the road across the foothills of the White Mountains and then up higher on to a plateau, before dropping down into the area known as Samariá, with its notoriously steep gorge, which would eventually take them down to the sea at Agia Roumeli.
He spoke quietly to Bandouvas. ‘Can we manage it? Truly?’
Bandouvas said nothing, but traced a line with his dirty fingernail down the map from north to south. Then he nodded. ‘God willing, we can do it. In truth, Kapitan, I don’t think we have any other choice.’
15
The walk back into Suda along the same dusty road was mostly spent in silence. There was no point in trying to persuade the men to sing. They all knew the situation and no one was in anything approaching good spirits. Lamb led the way, with what was left of his HQ, Bennett and Eadie’s platoon. Passing through the roadblock unopposed this time, they found themselves walking against a tide of men. There were more now than before, it seemed, and all of them were walking in the opposite direction. Lamb looked at them more closely and saw clearly the lack of equipment and the torn uniforms. The larger men were carrying the rifles and ammunition of the weak. Such officers as remained among the listless throng shouted orders in an attempt at discipline. ‘Change those Brens.’ ‘No one to carry heavy weapons for more than half an hour.’ ‘Keep closed up.’
An officer, a captain, stopped in front of them and, eyes wide, shook his head at Lamb. He had lost his hat and his uniform was ripped. Lamb noticed an old, dark stain on his shorts that looked like blood. He shouted into Lamb’s face, ‘Where the hell are you going? The Jerries are right behind us. You’re mad, all of you.’
‘We have to get to Mournies.’
The captain shook his head again. ‘It’s pointless. Stupid. No point in going that way, old man. The road’s been blown to pieces. You’ll never get round it. Have to go into the town and out again. That’s what I should do. But it’s still madness. You’re mad. Come with us. Save yourselves. You’ll all be killed, all of you.’
Lamb ignored him and walked on, letting him go. He was not sure whether or not to believe him, but he saw no reason not to do so. With a wave of his hand he signalled that they should turn right, and instantly wondered whether he had been right to do so.
The streets of southern Suda were deserted, and everywhere they looked lay piles of rubble and possessions. And among them, strewn like dolls, lay the bodies. A rat ran across Lamb’s path and vanished into the basement of a bombed-out building. On all sides the fires licked and crackled in the shells of houses and shops, and every few minutes an explosion somewhere would signal that they had reached a gas main or a cache of ammunition.
As the noise of one explosion died away, Lamb heard someone whistling. Lillibulero. For a moment he could hardly believe it. Pendlebury. His tune. He looked around but saw no one, only the column of his party. But how could that be? Bandouvas had sworn he was dead. He turned, still hearing the tune, and saw Valentine, lips pursed. Then it stopped. Lamb went over to the sergeant. ‘That tune you were whistling.’
‘Sir?’
‘Lillibulero.’
‘Yes, sir. Lovely tune, isn’t it? Do you know it was sung on campaign in the Duke of Marlborough’s times?’
‘Why were you whistling it?’
‘I don’t know, really. I suppose because I like it.’
‘Well, don’t.’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘Just don’t whistle it. Or sing it. It was Pendlebury’s tune.’
‘Was it, sir? Didn’t know that it was anyone’s tune. Just a tune.’
‘Well, now you know, don’t you. All right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Lamb rejoined the head of the column and wondered whether he might have over-reacted. He had hardly known Pendlebury. It was just that that tune seemed to conjure up something: a vision of hope, a spirit of joyfulness, an England he hoped he might see once again, some day. It seemed totally inappropriate.
They
walked on through the bombed ruin that had been Suda. The sound of falling masonry was all around. But it was the smell of the place that hit them the worst. It was extraordinary: olive oil mixed with burning brick and stone, strong wine and the distinctive sweetness of burnt flesh.
Although Canea must have suffered worse, he thought, Suda was dead. The heart of the little town had been ripped out.
They headed west, trying to stick to the roads south of the town, passing what had until recently been elegant Venetian-style seaside villas and tall houses, too many of them now no more than façades. Several were still smoking, and in dozens the fires raged. On Lamb’s right stood a ruined monastery and on his left the shell of a church, but it was hard to tell immediately whether either or both were the result of the ravages of time or the new vandalism of the German air force. A party of civilians, the women clad in black, the one old man in his shirtsleeves, ran across their path out of the town, pushing their possessions on two handcarts. They gave the party a look without stopping and hurried past. Ahead of them they could hear the boom of the guns. Startled by a noise and looking right, Lamb saw a group of three soldiers. It was obvious they were looting, but he did nothing to stop them. One of them was holding a case of something and arguing with one of the others when the third drew a revolver and shot the one with the case through the head. Falling, he dropped it and it smashed on the stones: a dozen bottles of red wine. Then, leaving their dead comrade, the two survivors clambered off in search of more plunder.
As he was contemplating the sheer waste, Smart came up to Lamb. He was carrying an ammunition box. ‘Found this in one of the houses by the road, sir. Sort of a warehouse sort of place. Door smashed in. There’s loads of stuff. Rifles, good ’uns. Enfields. Boxes of ammo.’
‘Well done, Smart. Leave the guns but get the lads to take as much ammo as we can all carry.’
As the men broke ranks to fill their pockets, Lamb saw that Bandouvas and his men had already taken some of the rifles and were busy re-arming themselves. The Greek smiled at him. ‘Kapitan Pendlebury’s guns. Thank God for him.’
