Blood of Honour

‘We’re still civilians, really. That’s what you need to understand. I’m sure you’re a bright enough chap, but it’s very different applying one’s brains in the army. University?’

‘Cambridge.’

Peploe laughed. ‘Me too – that’s two things we have in common. Don’t tell me you studied archaeology and ancient history?’

‘Mathematics.’

‘Ah, proper brains, then. The point is, Guy, I’m sure your mathematical mind will be useful, but what really counts is experience. That’s what makes all the difference. A year ago I was like you. New to the army and quite clueless. I learned on the job, and I had Tanner as my guide. He taught me bloody well, too. Look, what I’m trying to say is this: you can demonstrate authority in a number of ways, but I’m not sure barking orders at the best soldier in the whole battalion is the right way.’

Liddell said nothing. Shame and embarrassment coursed through him. He had hoped Peploe would back him up, but instead he’d been given a dressing down – in the nicest way, but patronizing all the same.

‘Ah, the witching hour,’ said Peploe. ‘The light’s going. We need to keep alert, Guy, in case those para boys try to catch us out.’ He looked around him. ‘By God, it’s a beautiful place. I should be crawling over ancient ruins, not waiting to fend off Germans.’ He patted Liddell on the back. ‘Try to work with Tanner, Guy. Earn his respect and you’ll find him a tremendous ally.’

Respect, respect, thought Liddell. That word. It seemed that everyone deserved it apart from him, yet he was the one who had been slighted, who had been treated disrespectfully, no matter what Peploe had said. Twice in two days he’d been made to feel he had been at fault when all he’d been doing was acting in the manner he believed both right and appropriate in an officer. He lit a cigarette and wandered back towards his men.

A leaden weight seemed to be pressing down on him, from which there was no escape. He felt trapped, because he knew, as in the back of his mind he had always known, he was not cut out to be a soldier. The patrol had confirmed that. When the shooting had begun, nausea had filled his stomach, his heart had pounded and his mind had scrambled. A feeling of panic. Only with the greatest of difficulty had he managed to stop himself standing up and running. Right now, he wanted to rant and rave and kick. He should never have left the farm. Pique: that was what it had been. Jealousy of a sister who was more capable than himself. Christ, he regretted it now. He drew on his cigarette and closed his eyes.

What the hell am I doing here? Caught up in a bloody stupid war on a dry and dusty island – and trapped with Jack Scard, of all people. He had never liked him, even as a boy. That quiet, brooding intensity, and the fact that he was so obviously good at everything. He remembered now a time when he and his father had gone to flush out a fox that had been attacking the chickens. It had been summer, so there was no hunt to call upon. Bill Scard had showed them the den and both Bill and his son had accompanied them one evening. Sure enough, the vixen had appeared, and his father had turned to him and said, ‘Go on, Guy, you have the shot.’

He’d missed, but then Jack had brought a rifle to his shoulder and, before the vixen could disappear into her den, killed her dead. ‘Good shot, boy,’ Liddell’s father had said. ‘A fine shot.’ And it transpired that it had been Jack who had found the den in the first place.

Liddell could remember it as though it were yesterday, the sense of disappointment and the injured pride, the tears he had tried so hard to hold back and how, as he had touched the corner of his eye, he had seen Jack looking at him. Even now, ten years on, it made him wince. It was ridiculous, because he knew now, as he had known even then, that somehow Jack Scard was better than him, and yet he couldn’t be because Scard was nothing more than a barely educated wild man, while he had been brought up with all the advantages of his class: a large home, education – a degree in mathematics, for God’s sake. All that had to count for something, and yet, here, on Crete, as he took command of his platoon in his father’s old regiment, it seemed that it counted for nothing at all.

Liddell cursed. He’d not thought of Jack Scard in years. He’d been sorry when Bill Scard had died, but when Jack had gone, he’d felt only relief. He could walk through the woods or on the downs without fear of seeing him; in no time, he’d put him out of mind entirely. But now here he was, and the thought of this decorated war hero sneering down his nose at him was unbearable. He had tried to impose himself but had been shown nothing but contempt. Liddell cursed again. No, there had to be another way of getting Tanner on side.

Drawing deeply on his cigarette, he thought hard, and then, as he watched the blue-grey smoke waft into the cool evening air, his thoughts turned back to the death of Bill Scard. What had happened? Think, he told himself. What was it Sykes had said? Something about Tanner never speaking about his past. Why not? Some people were reticent, it was true, but the way Sykes had said it was as though it had been a threat. Liddell smiled. Of course! It had been a threat. And why was Tanner making sure of that? Because he did have something to hide. Christ, why hadn’t it occurred to him before? His mind began to whirr and now he remembered what he’d told Sykes, that not only had Bill Scard died but so, too, had one of the lads in the village. Was there a link? He didn’t know, but Tanner did, he was sure of that now. Yes, he thought. Jack knew something and was worried he might also know and spill the beans. Liddell smiled. The more he thought about it, the surer he became.

He flicked away his cigarette. Of course, he could hazard a guess at what might have happened, but that was not the point. All he had to do was pretend he knew and make that clear to Tanner; perhaps Tanner might inadvertently tell him. If he was right, then that would very quickly wipe the knowing smile from the CSM’s face. He felt his spirits lift.

He was still thinking about when and how he might try out his theory when small-arms fire interrupted his reverie. It was coming from the west of the town, a burst of machine-gun fire, the crack of rifles and the dull explosions of grenades. There was shouting too, faint yet distinct on the evening breeze.

Once more nausea filled his guts, his blood pulsed and his legs weakened. Oh, God, he thought, don’t let them attack here.

7

Dusk and dawn – the best times to attack. When the light is changing rapidly and the shadows are long. For the defender, it is hard to adjust to this constantly altering light, but for the attacker there is still enough light to see. Desultory small-arms fire had continued to crack out all evening, but so far they had advanced to within two hundred metres of the town without being noticed.

Balthasar paused briefly as his men crept forward, flitting between trees and through the groves. Bringing his binoculars to his eyes, he looked up again at the walls. There were men up there. Another hundred metres, he thought, and then we can have a go.

Von der Schulenberg’s party had left ahead of them, circling to the north. There were just over a hundred men in each group, and in one respect this was an advantage: one did not want a large force at this stage. Infiltration and surprise were more easily achieved with fewer men. The enemy would have little idea how many there were of them, so all they had to do was hold their nerve, get that crucial breakthrough into the town, and he felt sure they had a good chance of success.

Balthasar moved forward again. There was still smoke on the air, but also a more fragrant smell, clear and sharp. Cicadas were calling noisily, almost deafeningly. Well, that would only help them. He was satisfied that the plan was the right one. A hundred metres from the edge of the town, they were all to open fire with their rifles, aiming for as many men on the walls as they could see. Then, Leutnant Mettig, from 2 Company, would lead the diversion: two hastily put together platoons, only thirty men. They were to work their way through the houses at the foot of the walls, kill anyone in their path, then make a big noise attacking the main gate. Meanwhile, the rest of them would go round to the right and storm the walls.

He was 150 metres away now, once more ahead of his men. Suddenly he heard a noise up ahead, then low voices, clear enough over the sound of the night insects. Urgently, he signalled to the men either side of him, some ten metres away, to wait. Pressing himself into the trunk of a tree, he listened. Two or maybe three men were coming; he heard the click of weapons and footsteps through the grass. Getting nearer, and then voices again – Greeks. They were just a few metres away now, and Balthasar breathed in. His heart hammered in his chest. Still