then on through Canea, normally such a thriving, bustling port, but this morning still quiet – an occasional yap of a dog, the crowing of a cockerel – but curiously lacking the normal hubbub that was a feature of the island’s capital.
A change of gear, and the motorbike was climbing out of the town and onto the rocky Akrotiri headland, weaving past cactus plants, more olives and rough farmsteads, until Woodhouse reached the general’s villa, typically Italianate and solid. It was a stone’s throw from the quarry in which Creforce was based, and no more than a few hundred yards from one of Crete’s most hallowed sites: the tomb of the island’s hero of recent times, Eleftherios Venizelos.
Creforce Headquarters had been chosen for the same reasons as the site of Venizelos’s tomb: because the view from there was as fine as any on the island. It was around 7.45 a.m. that Woodhouse was ushered through the hallway of the villa and out to the veranda where the British commander had just begun his breakfast.
‘Ah, Woodhouse,’ said the general, ‘will you join me? I can offer you coffee, boiled eggs and quite superb bread and honey.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Woodhouse, taking the chair shown by Freyberg’s outstretched hand. The general now pushed a basket of boiled eggs towards him. ‘Help yourself to coffee,’ he said, dabbing at his trim moustache with a starched white napkin.
Woodhouse thanked him again and then, having poured his coffee and taken an egg, paused to look at the view before him. Below them lay Canea, the ancient harbour protecting the small array of boats like a mother cuddling a child. The pale limestone and whitewashed buildings of the town were vivid against the deep blue of the sea and the lush green coastal plain around it. Beyond, stretching west, was the long sweep of the bay. Visibility was as near to perfect as could be, and Woodhouse could clearly see the small town of Platanias some six miles away and, beyond that, the airfield of Maleme, now quiet and empty of RAF planes. To his left lay Prison Valley through which he had just travelled, and, rising majestically, the great ridge of the White Mountains.
‘Hell of a viewpoint, isn’t it?’ said Freyberg. ‘Twenty minutes ago we could see bugger-all for the smoke and dust, but it’s settled down again now. So, tell me, how are our Greek friends?’
‘In good heart, sir,’ said Woodhouse. ‘Determined not to give the enemy an inch, should he try to attack.’
Freyberg chuckled. ‘Good, good. And they’ve got enough ammunition? Positions seem satisfactory to you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Woodhouse was about to expand, but stopped as something suddenly caught his ear. Pausing, he cocked his head. Yes, there it was – out to sea, unmistakable now: the sound of aircraft approaching. He glanced at the general, who was now spreading another generous dollop of thick honey across his bread, apparently oblivious to the sound.
‘I know most of them are not Cretans,’ said Freyberg, ‘but Crete is still part of Greece. It’s still their country. Most Greek men will fight like dervishes if it’s Greek soil they’re defending. We’re going to need men like that and, of course, they’re a proud people.’
By now the sound of aero engines was a steady, increasingly loud drone. Moments later, Woodhouse spotted them – an air armada of Junkers three-engine transport planes and, behind, gliders. Mesmerized, he watched as a number of gliders detached themselves from their Junkers tugs and began drifting down towards the coast. Ahead, the Junkers were now shedding their loads, hundreds of white parachutes suddenly bursting into life like flower buds until the sky was awash with them, white canopies drifting downwards.
Several gliders were heading seemingly straight towards them, and then more parachutes were dropping. Suddenly, from nearby and from the valley and coast below, firing rang out, anti-aircraft guns booming, black puffs of shell dotting the sky, while amid the crashes of the guns came the steady machine-gun fire of the Bren and the individual snap of the rifle.
Woodhouse glanced at Freyberg and was astonished to see the Creforce commander calmly continuing to eat his bread and honey. It was inconceivable that the general had not observed what was going on, yet Woodhouse knew that to suggest Freyberg do something would be at best impolite and at worst downright insubordinate. On the other hand, Bren and rifle fire was now crackling very near at hand, from the direction of the Venizelos grave.
Clearing his throat, Woodhouse said, ‘I say, there’s quite a show going on, sir.’
‘H’mph,’ Freyberg replied, now glancing up to see the spectacle. ‘I’ll say one thing for ’em, they’re dead on time.’
‘Sir?’
‘The enemy,’ said Freyberg, pointing skywards with his knife, ‘impressively punctual.’
Woodhouse glanced at the ribbon of the Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service Order on the General’s chest, to which had been added no fewer than two clasps, signifying he had been awarded the medal three times. Next to these was an array of other honours. Freyberg’s bravery was legendary.
Soon after Freyberg had arrived to take command of Creforce, some three weeks earlier, Woodhouse had been told of how Churchill had once demanded that Freyberg strip off his shirt and vest and show him the wounds he had sustained during the Great War. According to the story, Freyberg had apparently obliged and then Churchill had carefully counted the scars – twenty-seven in all. ‘Yes, but it’s not as bad as it looks,’ Freyberg was supposed to have told him, ‘because you tend to get two wounds for every bullet or piece of shrapnel – one where it goes in and another where it goes out the other side.’ Fearlessness was all very well, Woodhouse thought, but rifle and machine-gun fire were now cracking out very close to hand. Paratroopers were drifting to the ground only a few hundred yards away. Above the din, he could even hear occasional shouts, while behind him, he was conscious of activity within the villa.
‘I should report in to the quarry, sir,’ said Woodhouse, as Freyberg calmly poured another cup of coffee.
‘Yes, yes, you cut along,’ the general agreed.
Woodhouse stood up, saluted, and hurried out.
*
General Freyberg smiled to himself once Woodhouse had gone. The expression on the young man’s face had been priceless. The truth was, however, that there was little he could do in these first throes of the German attack. He had made his dispositions, ensured his troops were as ready as possible, and had done all he could to urge the Commander-in-Chief, Middle East, to provide aircraft and guns and as many reinforcements as he could spare. Now that the Germans were actually dropping from the sky, he had to let the men get on with it. He would act only once he knew how the battle was developing.
He had known about the German plans since the beginning of the month; Wavell had let him in on some high-level intelligence. Where that had come from, Freyberg had no idea, but when Wavell assured him it was secure that was good enough for him. Yet the C-in-C had also made it quite clear that he was to guard this secret with his life and under no circumstances was he to act on what he had been told. This was damned frustrating. Any ass could see that the airfield at Maleme, just up the coast, was the key to a successful airborne invasion. Once the Huns had secured the field, they could pour in as many troops as they liked. The maddening thing was that he would have reinforced it considerably had he not known about the German plans. Now that he did, however, the risk of compromising this intelligence was considered too great. He’d rather Wavell had never told him.
This same source had also told him the Germans were planning an attack on 17 May. That had then been postponed by three days. Freyberg had woken early that morning and had settled down to breakfast on the veranda with the intention of watching events unfold from his grandstand view. And, by God, that intelligence had been bang on the money! Sure enough, almost dead on 0800 hours, down the Huns had come.
Freyberg dabbed his mouth again with his napkin.
