This mood of quiet confidence had not changed as they had settled down around a rough wooden trestle table to discuss the current situation and to plan for the counter-attack that night at Maleme. Drinks had been poured, cigarettes handed around; their faces were serious but hardly grave.
No sooner had they each given their brief reports than Freyberg was interrupted by Captain Sandford, head of the signals group above the quarry.
‘Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.’
Freyberg stepped away from the table and, taking the thin, folded piece of paper from Sandford, went outside to read it in private. Clear of any possible prying eyes, he unfolded it and read: ‘On continuation of attack Colorado, reliably reported that among operations planned for twenty-first May is air landing two mountain battalions and attack Canea. Landing from echelon of small ships depending on situation at sea.’
Freyberg read it through again, his heart sinking, then held it out and, with his cigarette lighter, burned it, the paper curling and blackening and turning to ash. For a moment he stood there thinking. Colorado was the codename for Crete, but an attack on Canea had been spelled out in the clear. The air landing of two battalions was less of a concern because he did not see how the Germans could land at Maleme when the south and east of the airfield were still surrounded by 5th New Zealand Brigade, but a seaborne invasion was a different matter. It was what he had feared most all along, and now it was about to happen.
He walked stiffly back to the table and sat down, then gulped his Scotch. For a moment he said nothing, his brow furrowed, his mind whirring. He wished he could have shown the signal to the others, to discuss it in detail, but he had been sworn not to show such messages to any soul under any circumstances. Besides Captain Sandford, also sworn to secrecy, these signals were for his eyes only. And only he could shoulder the responsibility of acting on this intelligence.
‘Are you all right, General?’ asked Puttick.
Freyberg, who had been rubbing his brow between his fingers and thumb, looked up. ‘Er, yes – sorry. Where were we? Yes, the counter-attack on Maleme tonight.’
Hargest cleared his throat. ‘Ideally, I’d like another couple of battalions,’ he said. He was a round-faced and round-girthed New Zealander, with a short, trim moustache, a farmer and politician in New Zealand between the wars. ‘I’ve got the 21st and 23rd Battalions primed and ready to go, and the Maoris still at Platanias, but I’d far rather have an overwhelming force and make sure we do the job properly.’
‘I can release you two of my battalions,’ said Brigadier Inglis, commander of the 4th Brigade, based further along the coast between Canea and the village of Galatas.
‘Out of the question,’ retorted Freyberg. ‘We need the troops here in case there’s a seaborne invasion.’
‘Surely one battalion could be spared, sir?’ said Hargest.
‘Only if Vasey agrees to release one of his Australian battalions from Rethymno to replace it.’ He turned to Vasey. ‘You seem to have Rethymno in hand, Vasey. Can you spare one of yours? What about the 2/7th?’
‘I was rather hoping to use them to clear the road to Rethymno, sir.’
‘And it’ll take some hours to get them here, sir, at the very least,’ said Hargest.
‘Hargest is right, sir. It’s forty miles and we’ve barely enough M/T. Then there’s also the problem of moving in daylight with enemy fighters about.’
Freyberg held up a hand. ‘Do your best, Vasey. Put the order through now. I’m sorry, but I’m not budging on what I said. You can’t have another battalion until Vasey’s Australians arrive. We’ve got more pressing concerns here at Canea and Suda than those few paratroopers at Maleme. What you’ve got should be more than enough as it is. Damn it, man, you’ve got three whole battalions you can use. Those para boys must be hopelessly low on ammunition by now. You should be able to slaughter ’em.’
Hargest nodded. ‘Very well, General.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly fifteen hundred hours now. If Vasey’s lot can get here by, say, twenty hundred, then I’d still like to have 20th Battalion or whichever one you can spare, Inglis. But as you say, sir, I’m sure I’m being overly cautious.’
‘Of course you are, James,’ said Puttick. ‘Colonel Andrew panicked a bit last night, that’s all. I don’t entirely blame him – it’s difficult to know what to do for the best when communications are down, but we’re aware of the situation now and you’ve got more than enough troops as it is to deal with it. The general’s right, it’ll be a slaughter. But what we must be careful about is moving the fielder every time the ball goes through the gap. If the Huns try a seaborne invasion or an attempt to break out of Prison Valley, we’re going to need troops here. Balance, James. It’s all about maintaining balance.’
They left soon after, just as the latest enemy air raids were developing. Stukas and Junkers 88s bombed British positions along the coast from Maleme to Suda Bay, the coast disappearing once more amid a haze of smoke and dust. The bombing did not appear to have been particularly accurate, but this time the planes had been accompanied by fighters, Messerschmitt 109s, which strafed positions in the wake of the Junkers. As the dust settled and the smoke began to drift away, the transports appeared, turning and flying parallel to the coast in their already familiar vics of three. From the sand-bagged sangar at the mouth of the quarry, Freyberg, tin hat on his head, peered through powerful binoculars at the spectacle. A large number of parachutes were blossoming directly over Platanias, some six miles away. They were met by furious return fire, cackling like fireworks all along the coast to the rocky outcrop of Akrotiri where Freyberg now stood. He smiled to himself. Of all the people he would least like to meet were he to be descending in a parachute, it was the Maori. Vicious little brutes.
Fierce fighting continued for at least an hour and a half. There seemed to be something going on at Maleme as well, but Freyberg soon found himself gazing out to sea, more than along the coast. The signal had been quite explicit: a seaborne invasion was expected that day, 21 May. Freyberg found himself pacing impatiently: into the quarry, back out to the sangar. Then he left the quarry entirely, and climbed up through the sagebrush over dusty red soil to the rocky ground above. Sweat ran down the sides of his face, but whether it was from the heat or anxiety, he was not entirely sure.
At half past four, unable to sit waiting at Creforce Headquarters any longer, he ordered his car and sped down the hill to Suda Bay to see the naval officer-in-charge, Captain Morse. Half-sunken ships littered the narrow bay, while along the docks, the signs of repeated air attacks were all too apparent. Part of the quayside had completely collapsed, a crane lay on its side, twisted and broken, while a number of buildings were nothing more than piles of jagged rubble. There was an air of menace and desolation about the place.
Morse’s command post was in a building a short way from the harbour’s edge, with a commanding view back down the length of the bay. As his car drew to a halt, Freyberg looked back at the harbour and the men clearing the rubble; it was a big task. Morse seemed slightly surprised when, a minute later, Freyberg was brought into his office – another room of smooth, whitewashed stone, a picture of the King on the wall behind the desk and a shipping chart opposite. An ashtray overflowed with cigarette ends. Morse stubbed out yet another, saluted, then nodded towards the window. ‘I’m afraid we can’t keep up, sir. It doesn’t matter how much we clear away, there’s always more.’
‘What about Suda Island?’ said Freyberg. ‘Have the stores there been cleared out yet?’
‘Yes, sir. We finished yesterday.’
‘Good.’ He stroked his moustache. ‘Look here, Morse,’ he said. ‘About a German seaborne invasion …’
‘As I said to you before, sir, I really don’t think that need be too much of a concern.’
‘Yes, you keep saying that, but we’ve underestimated the Hun before in this war and with dire consequences.’
Morse could not help his sigh of exasperation. He looked tired, his eyes hollow. ‘There are logistical issues here,’ he said. ‘The only way Hitler can get his men across the Aegean is by requisitioning large numbers of caiques. These are the only vessels in the sort of quantities he would need to transport any kind of invasion force.’
‘What about Greek merchant ships and the Italian navy?’
‘Perhaps one or two trampers as well, but nothing that would transport a serious invasion force. As for the Italians, well – the Italian fleet is not in the Aegean. One destroyer is known to be at Piraeus but nothing more.’
‘But from these, Morse, they
Morse chuckled. ‘Well, yes, I suppose they
