Blood of Honour

that. Now that he thought about it, he’d seen the cylindrical magazines on the weapons, not belts. Smiling to himself, he soon caught up with the others. Mr Liddell could go to hell. They had just destroyed eight Jerry supply canisters and, with them, a stash of arms and ammunition – weapons and bullets that those Jerry paratroopers could no longer use. And, as he knew from bitter experience, a soldier without weapons was no good to anyone.

6

Oberleutnant Balthasar was furious. Four men dead and one more seriously wounded was bad enough, but to lose the supplies like that was an added blow. More than that, it was a humiliation. And then to be caught out by that Tommy. He wondered why the soldier had not fired when he had had the chance. He knew he would have done, but it had confirmed what he had long ago come to believe: that somehow he was invincible, destined to survive this war. It had given him a chance to study the Englander and he promised himself that, should he ever see him again, he would kill him.

He stopped and angrily kicked the ground. The men were tough, motivated and well trained, but he knew their confidence had taken a beating so far that day. Damn it all, so had his. All that waiting around, the anticipation and nerves gnawing away at them, and when they had finally made their jumps, they had been shot to pieces. Now this. Tommies, not Greeks. He’d fleetingly seen a helmeted figure by the cart, then flashing through the olive groves, but there was no tell-tale sign of blood or, better still, a body. Those Tommies had crept up behind them – stalked them! – blown up their supplies, then disappeared again.

Balthasar had seen the shock and disappointment on the faces of the men; after what had come earlier that day, it had been hard to hide. Most had lost friends in the jump. Casualties were expected, but that did not mean men were unaffected when they saw their comrades on fire, screaming, as they plunged to the ground, or trussed up in the branches of a tree with half their guts hanging out. It was at times like this that strong, decisive leadership was needed. His men trusted him, looked up to him, yet he’d allowed himself to be outfoxed – too busy watching his flank to protect his arse. Briefly, he took off his helmet, rubbed his eyes, wiped his brow, then placed it back on his head. He turned and went to rejoin the others. Time was marching on; they needed to find Major Schulz and what remained of the battalion.

A quarter of an hour later, having followed the river that flowed through the mouth of the valley, they finally caught up with most of the survivors from the battalion’s jump, a couple of kilometres to the west of Heraklion town. The land before the Rethymno road rose briefly, so that the river had cut a shallow gully. To either side of the river there were olives and plentiful orange and lemon groves; among them and along the gully, paratroopers now took cover. Above, another flight of Tante Jus thundered over, parachutes blooming and drifting down. The Tommy flak guns continued to boom, so that the ground trembled, the reports of the guns resounding across the mouth of the valley. Small-arms fire crackled, sharp and tinny beside the guns, and mostly from the defenders, firing at the unfortunates still drifting towards the ground.

To his relief Balthasar spotted several more of his men, and after ordering the remnants of his company to find cover together, clear of any direct enemy fire, he hurried off to find Major Schulz.

The battalion commander was not in the house he had initially indicated, which lay among tall palms and plane trees just before the river, but beneath a small two-metre cliff on a bend in the river.

‘Ah, Balthasar, at last,’ he said, as the oberleutnant reached him and saluted. ‘Not quite what we were expecting, eh?’

‘The Tommies seem to have plenty more guns than I’d thought, Herr Major,’ Balthasar replied. ‘Men too, for that matter. Where are the other company commanders?’ It was cool now, and around them mosquitoes and other insects swarmed beside the river.

‘Von der Schulenburg made it but the other two have been killed,’ Schulz replied, brushing a bug away from his face. ‘Thank God I jumped first from my plane, because it was hit immediately after. Everyone else was killed.’

‘How many men have we lost?’

Schulz lit a cigarette. ‘It’s hard to say. We have a few more than two hundred at the moment. Major Schirmer dropped several kilometres west of here with his men. I’ve made radio contact with him but he’s blocking the road and fighting off local bandits. I shouldn’t say this, but Generalmajor Student wants his arse kicking.’

‘The Cretans not welcoming us with open arms?’

Schulz snorted. ‘Not a bit of it. The locals have been butchering our men. I had a paratrooper here a few moments ago who saw his best friend beaten to death by franc-tireurs. He only just managed to get away himself.’

‘And what about Colonel Brauer and the rest of the regiment?’

Schulz shook his head. ‘We’ve been trying them on the radio, but we can’t get through. I assume it must be broken or destroyed.’

‘Maybe we should get ours to him. We’ve less need for it now we’re here. Under darkness it might be possible.’

‘Maybe. Anyway, give me some good news – how many of your men have you brought?’

‘Seventeen, Herr Major. Although another forty or so are already here.’

‘Seventeen? God give me strength.’ Schulz drew on his cigarette and shook his head.

Balthasar had thought to spin a story about the loss of the supply cart, or simply not mention it, but he knew one of the men would say something and that the story would eventually reach the major. Far better to tell the CO straight, and now – bad news hidden beneath worse. ‘Actually, we were attacked on the way,’ he told the major, lighting a cigarette himself. ‘I’m afraid they got some of our supplies and five more of our men. Four dead.’

Schulz said nothing. For a moment he rubbed his brow, paced up and down a few steps, then said, ‘We can’t stay here and do nothing.’

‘I don’t think we should, sir.’ Not if I have anything to do with it. He wanted a chance to fight back, to kill these Cretan bandits and Tommies. By God, he had an urge to make them pay for what they had done that afternoon. ‘We should make an attack at dusk.’ He looked at his watch. 1855. ‘In an hour’s time. What do we know of the defences?’

‘We’ve been watching them since we landed,’ said Schulz. ‘There are Greek troops and franc- tireurs manning the western part of the town. We’ve spotted men on the battlements but they’re also on the ground below. They seem to be quite lightly armed – rifles mostly and a few machine-guns. The guns are mainly flak.’

‘The British must be further round to the south,’ said Balthasar. ‘I’d like to have another look, Herr Major. If we can get into the town, we can make the most of our machine-pistols.’ He patted his MP40. ‘These will make mincemeat of the rabble inside, as will our grenades. Out here, without all our MGs and rifles, and without guns, we’re virtually defenceless.’

‘I agree, Balthasar,’ said Schulz. ‘We just need to get a toehold inside, then the town will fall and the harbour will be ours. Those Tommy guns can’t get us there.’ He patted a fist into his palm. ‘Let’s get von der Schulenberg and work out a plan of attack.’

They found Hauptmann Count von der Schulenberg, then scrambled up the bank behind the house. Yet more transports were flying over, most heading east of the town. The guns continued to thunder, so that as they entered the house, the walls shook. On the first floor they peered out of the windows across the broken land, with its groves, trees and occasional houses. The land, Balthasar noticed, was only superficially flat. All the way to the edge of the town, the ground was broken by small rocky gullies and outcrops, and plenty of vegetation. At dusk, with the light constantly changing, it would be easy to advance, flitting between the trees and groves, nothing more than shadows in the fading gloom. Their small numbers would work to their advantage. Balthasar scanned the land again. There were also too many parachutes, patches of creamy silk draped across trees or streamed out over the ground. Bodies littered the earth, and the urge to avenge those men stirred strongly within him.

He trained his binoculars on the town walls. Smoke from the crashed Junkers had thinned so that he now had a clear view. Behind him, the sun was setting beneath the mountains, its last rays casting a beam of bright orange light through the back of the house and giving the limestone walls of the town ahead an ethereal glow. Outside,