Freyberg left him soon after, still unconvinced by Morse’s reassurances. The intelligence from Cairo had been uncannily accurate so far and now he had it on the same authority that a seaborne invasion would be coming today. The sea was a big place – what if it was not picked up by Cunningham’s forces?
By the time he arrived back at Creforce Headquarters, it was some time after five. Brigadier Stewart, his chief of staff, was there to meet him, concern etched across his face.
‘You’d better come and have a look, General,’ he said, leading him to the observation-post sangar.
Freyberg took the proffered binoculars in silence and trained them out to sea. He could see nothing – just the same deep, empty blue. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at, Keith? Can’t see anything.’
‘No, sir, not out to sea – at Maleme.’
Freyberg peered through the lenses. There was a lot of smoke around Maleme – it looked as though a fuel dump had been hit because at one end a huge column of black smoke rose into the air – but he could now see a German transport coming in to land. Men began leaping out, and then the aircraft moved off again, wobbling as it took to the air and disappearing into the smoke. Moments later, it re-emerged, rising safely out of the fray. Other transports, he could see, had not been so fortunate – one was still burning fiercely; another lay wrecked.
‘We seem to be making mincemeat of this little effort,’ he said, passing the binoculars back to Stewart. ‘I’d have thought that was a gunner’s dream.’
‘But if they keep coming and gain a foothold, General—’
Freyberg raised a hand. ‘Look to the sea, Keith, look to the sea. That’s where we need to worry.’
Once again, the intelligence reports had been right. An invasion fleet was on its way. Decrypts of German radio traffic reported that it was steaming for Crete. To protect this most secret of sources, Admiral Cunningham despatched a lone Maryland reconnaissance plane, which duly found the fleet, as if by accident. By dusk, three of the Mediterranean Fleet’s forces were back in the Aegean, and as darkness fell Force D, of three giant cruisers and four destroyers, all bristling with a combination of heavy guns, pompoms, cannons and torpedoes, was closing in for the kill.
All this immense fire power against one Italian destroyer, two small, rusting steamers and nineteen caiques.
It was around 11.25 p.m. when a runner from Captain Sandford’s signals team arrived at the Creforce quarry with important news. They had been monitoring radio traffic out at sea and had just picked up the news that Force D was about to engage. Freyberg immediately hurried outside, Stewart and other staff officers following, and clambered up to the rocky outcrop above.
Suddenly the horizon was lit by a series of flashes, followed, some moments later, by the dull crump of guns. Relief coursed through the general. More flashes, orange and red, momentarily lit the sky, then came the steady peal of the guns’ thunder.
‘Ha, ha!’ chuckled Freyberg, jumping from foot to foot. From the signals group regular updates were brought down. An Italian destroyer, the
Freyberg looked up at the stars twinkling down on them and breathed in deeply. A hint of smoke, but mostly he could smell the sage and grass, and the dusty red clay. Gunfire could still be heard out at sea, but the invasion force was no more.
‘It’s over,’ said Brigadier Stewart. ‘Well done, sir. Perhaps we will save Crete after all.’
‘Thank you, Keith,’ said Freyberg. ‘It’s been a great responsibility. A great responsibility.’ He looked at his watch. The counter-attack at Maleme was due to start in half an hour, at around 1 a.m., later than originally planned, but with 20th Battalion, released after the late arrival of the 2/7th Australians. ‘Time for Bedfordshire, I think,’ he said. ‘Can’t do much to help the boys at Maleme by staying up all night.’
Freyberg walked back to his villa, cicadas ringing in his ears, the rough ground crunching underfoot. His worst fears had not come to pass. Damn it, he should have listened to Morse.
The Creforce commander was already fast asleep by the time the counter-attack was due to begin, so he was blissfully unaware that already it had begun to unravel. Delays and more delays as troops struggled through the night meant that it was not until 3.30 a.m. that the Maori and 20th Battalion finally began advancing along the coast towards Maleme, and not until well after dawn that they would be in any position to join the counter-attack on the airfield. And all the time more and more fresh, well-equipped German mountain troops had been landing.
The invasion force at sea might have been defeated, but Freyberg had made a catastrophic miscalculation, for while he slept, Maleme was about to be lost for good.
And, with it, British chances of saving the island.
12
A little after 3 p.m., Thursday, 22 May. Another hot day. Along the walls of Heraklion and out beyond, the men kept guard, watching for any enemy movement, but the heavy, languid atmosphere meant no one was going to fight willingly. In B Company Headquarters, a house opposite the Canea Gate, Captain Peploe and Tanner had made the most of the quiet to catch some much-needed sleep, Peploe on a divan on the third floor, Tanner on an old armchair in Peploe’s office – once the living room, no doubt, of a prosperous family, but which had been transformed since being requisitioned by the Greek Army. All that was left were a couple of rickety tables, wooden chairs, one sideboard and a lone empty bookshelf.
It was cooler in there than out, the thick stone walls an effective barrier against the heat, although shafts of sunlight poured through the open windows. In his half-sleep, Tanner batted away a fly, but it was a persistent creature: every time he was on the verge of dropping off, he felt it crawling over his arm or face. He opened an eye and watched a small lizard scurry up the wall next to him, then rolled down the sleeves of his shirt and took out a handkerchief, which he placed over his face. He closed his eyes once more.
It had been another busy night. Tanner had persuaded Peploe that if there was to be no counter-attack they should at least be sending out fighting patrols at dusk. In any case, they had had two further canisters to retrieve. These they had successfully found and they had proved even more bountiful. One had been filled with a dozen Schmeissers, or MP40s, as they appeared to be called from the stamp at the end of the breech, and plentiful cardboard boxes of ammunition and magazines, while the other contained one 80mm mortar and two dozen boxes of six mortar shells. These had been taken back with glee while Tanner and Peploe had led separate patrols in an effort to pinpoint the German pickets. Having prompted return fire and noted the position of muzzle flashes, they had retreated to the edge of the town and spent the night harassing enemy positions with their newly found mortar.
It had also been encouraging to hear gunfire from further to the west throughout the night. It might not have been the co-ordinated counter-attack Pendlebury had had in mind, but the screams piercing the darkness from the ridge to the west suggested the Cretan guerrillas were causing murderous havoc among the enemy. And at regular intervals, the Rangers had kept firing the mortar, the rather hollow sound of its discharge followed some seconds later by a dull explosion. If they couldn’t attack, then Tanner was determined they should make those paratroopers’ lives as difficult as possible.
The morning hate had arrived shortly after eight o’clock, bombing positions around the airfield, but since then it had been quiet, and became quieter still the further the sun rose in the sky. Tanner shifted in his chair, a stab of pain from his side waking him once more.
Tanner pulled a Tennis Meister from his top pocket and had just lit it when a runner from Battalion hurried up the stairs and knocked lightly on the open door.
‘Is Captain Peploe around?’ he asked.
‘Not at the moment. Is it important?’ Tanner replied.
‘Lieutenant McDonald, then?’
‘On duty on the walls – or maybe at the town’s edge.’
