Blood of Honour

cat looked down and mewed.

As they crouched in a group, Liddell said, ‘I think we should all move out there together.’

‘No, sir,’ said Tanner, ‘Captain Pendlebury should move alone on our left, away from where most of the Jerries are.’ He turned to Pendlebury. ‘If that’s all right with you, sir? About fifty or sixty yards. Close enough so we can see you.’

‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ said Pendlebury.

‘And we don’t cause a diversion unless we have to.’ Tanner took out his sword bayonet and drew a rough map in the dirt. ‘Here’s their CP,’ he said, making an X beside a line that was the main road.

‘And here’s the river. Three hundred yards or so to the south-west, it meanders back on itself. We’ll cover his flank here, where the bend in the river juts out, so that he can cross it further back. There’s a little cliff in the river on the bend and maize fields the other side, so as long as there aren’t lots of Jerry there, you should be all right, sir.’

‘Bravo, Tanner,’ said Pendlebury. ‘Sounds like a good plan to me.’

‘And we get to the river by heading south a little way now, keeping the wreck of that Jerry transport between us and the enemy. There’s plenty of vegetation and folds in the ground, so we should be able to stay out of sight.’

‘Formation, sir?’ asked Sykes.

‘We’ll move in pairs. Two up front, two out to the right, and two to the left, who will keep in visual touch with Captain Pendlebury. The idea is that we avoid opening fire until the captain is well across the river. Sir,’ said Tanner, turning to Pendlebury, ‘you should move in line with us. If we halt, you should too.’

‘All right,’ said Pendlebury. ‘But once I get across the river I’m on my own.’

‘Yes, sir. Once you’re across we’ll cause our diversion, if need be, and draw attention away from you.’ Tanner glanced at Liddell and realized the lieutenant had nothing more than a pistol. ‘I don’t think you’ll get very far with that, sir, if the shooting does start,’ he said, then unslung his rifle and gave it to him. ‘Here, you’d better take this.’

Liddell accepted it. ‘And if we run into their pickets?’

‘Let’s hope they’re taking a siesta.’

Tanner wiped his brow. By God, it was hot. He had kept his haversack on his hip along with his bayonet, water bottle, pistol and magazine pouches, and now worried he had kept too much. It creaked as he stood up. The others moved noisily too, rifle straps clicking, army boots loud on the ground. But they needed this clobber – he couldn’t expect men to head out to within spitting distance of the enemy without the means to defend themselves. He looked around. Birds still chirped, a dog barked and somewhere not far away a cock was crowing too. Background noise that would help mask their approach.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’

They passed the wrecked Junkers and moved around a small craggy outcrop and down into a sloping grove of dense olives. At the bottom there was a grassy track and a field, but immediately in front lay another small rise in the ground that hid their approach. Working around it they reached a vineyard and, crouching among the leaves, were able to move forward with comparative ease so that Tanner began to feel more confident about their chances of reaching the river undetected. The main difficulty was navigating the correct route without raising his head to orient himself, although he could still see the mountains and had already marked a bead along which he hoped he would keep the right course. And he had his compass. The headland overlooking the river had been at about 240 degrees and, pausing now, he took a bearing. The pointers flickered, then settled. Good. Glancing around him, he saw Sykes and Atkins on his right, McAllister and Bell a short way back. Sykes raised his thumb, then wiped the back of his hand theatrically across his forehead. But no sight of Pendlebury. He was too far off, but it was reassuring that at fifty yards he could not be seen – or heard, for that matter. Then he turned to Liddell.

‘Come on, keep going,’ whispered the lieutenant, from behind him.

Another olive grove, and now Tanner saw Pendlebury to his left. The sweet smell of soil and herbs had been replaced by a familiar sickly odour. Tanner paused, sniffing to determine where it was coming from, but it was hard to pinpoint. He moved on cautiously through the long grass, but then a group of crows fluttered noisily in front of him, making him start.

‘Oh, my God!’ exclaimed Liddell.

‘Ssh!’ Tanner signalled to Sykes and McAllister to halt. Damn. It was precisely what he had hoped to avoid. Any picket would know those birds had been disturbed and very probably by men. Sure enough, a moment later, several shots zipped nearby. Tanner pressed his head into the ground, breathing in the soil, a pleasant relief from the stench of death. Another bullet. How far away? No more than a hundred yards, he reckoned, maybe less. So they were there, all right. Dust had stuck to his face and hands, but he now inched forward again and saw at last the source of the smell. A few yards away lay a dead paratrooper, his chest bright where the crows had been feeding. Tanner saw that his eyes had been plucked clear, his cheeks pecked. He had seen human beings torn and shredded many times before, but his stomach tightened and filled with nauseous bile.

‘Oh, Christ,’ said Liddell, behind him, and retched.

Be quiet, damn you! thought Tanner. ‘Close your eyes and keep moving,’ he whispered.

It was German voices that alerted him some ten minutes later. Through the grove he could see the river now, away to his left, and the planned crossing point for Pendlebury, but some thirty yards ahead and slightly to their right were what he supposed must be the German pickets. Behind him, he could hear Liddell breathing erratically, and he now cursed Captain Peploe for insisting the lieutenant should come with them.

Halting the others, he glanced across to Sykes, who pointed up ahead, then held up three fingers. Tanner nodded, then turned to Liddell. ‘Stay here,’ he mouthed, then began inching forward. The land rose gently in front of him, the olives thick, their branches of silvery and dark green leaves almost touching the ground. Carefully, slowly, he moved through the long grass beneath the olives, cringing inwardly each time a part of his webbing or kit made a noise. He could hear their voices clearly, a short way to his right, so he moved forward again.

‘Was war das fur ein Gerausch?’ he now heard one say. He froze. The man’s tone had been alert, and he had caught ‘was war’ – what was.

Silence for a few moments, while the men listened. Tanner felt his chest pound and his breathing seemed hopelessly loud and heavy as he lay there. A blade of grass was tickling his nose and he suddenly had an urge to sneeze. Carefully bringing his hand to his face, he pressed a finger hard against his top lip just in time.

‘Nichts,’ said another, in a reassuring, more relaxed voice. ‘Ich habe nichts gehort.’

Tanner breathed out with relief then inched forward again until he had moved beyond and behind the pickets. Creeping to his left, he parted the grass and saw the Germans just ten yards away, their backs to him, lying beneath the olives, looking down the shallow slope. Theirs was a good position, he now saw, for the olives thinned to the side of them and then beyond, stretching back towards the town to the south, the groves were noticeably younger, sparser, and offering a much clearer field of fire. Thank God, thought Tanner. It was only to their right that the endless groves and vines were so much thicker. He had chosen their approach route well.

Where were the other pickets? The ground rose again slightly to their left – not much, but enough. He guessed they were positioned for interlocking fire, but that did not mean they needed to be in visual contact. Tanner thought for a moment. The men were equipped with rifles. To kill him they would have to swing those round and fire. If he could travel half the distance without them noticing, he reckoned he would have them. They were, he saw, lying together, side by side. As ever, surprise would be everything.

Slowly, he felt in his pockets for his clasp knife and German knife, desperately trying not to make a noise, then withdrew into the grass and began carefully lifting himself into a crouch. Suddenly he heard a match strike and knew that the moment had come. Leaping forward, he bounded through grass, olive branches snapping back at him as he moved. One of the men started – a grunt of alarm – but they had barely moved by the time Tanner leaped onto their backs, and with one hand plunged his German knife down through the right-hand man’s shoulder into his sub-clavian artery, and flailed wildly with his clasp knife at the left-hand man, who gasped, dropped his rifle and clutched his wounded arm. A split second later, Tanner plunged the German knife again, this time down into the