Blood of Honour

‘You wrote this,’ said Balthasar, renewed anger coursing through him. ‘You are an agent of the British and you were leaving Heraklion to organize the bandits in the mountains.’

‘I understand that you might wish that to be the case, but it is not. I know very little, as I told you.’

‘Perhaps you can tell us about the defences in the town,’ said Eicher.

‘What do you want to know?’ Pendlebury replied. ‘There are large Venetian walls around the town. A fort at the harbour.’

Eicher sighed. ‘Men. What men are in the town?’

‘I couldn’t say for sure. A lot, though. There are a number of Greek and British regiments.’

‘Eicher,’ snapped Balthasar, ‘we know about their forces. If there were as many as Herr Pendlebury says they would have counter-attacked by now.’

‘I told you I know very little. You probably know more than me. My role was more diplomatic than military.’

Balthasar felt his anger rising. This man was making fools of them, treating them like idiots.

‘What about supplies?’ asked Eicher. ‘What reserves are there?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ replied Pendlebury. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever asked about. Everyone seemed to have enough the other night.’ He grimaced, then turned over. ‘I’m very tired. My chest – it’s a strain talking like this.’

‘Maybe we should let him rest some more, Herr Oberleutnant,’ suggested Reibert.

Balthasar slammed his hand against the door. ‘No!’ he shouted, then stood over Pendlebury and pulled him over so that the Englishman cried out in pain. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I know you are an agent and I know you are working with the bandits. Tell me everything.’

‘I have,’ mumbled Pendlebury.

‘This is your last chance. Tell me, or I will have you killed. And after what you and your Cretan comrades did to my men, believe me, it will be a pleasure.’

‘But I’ve told you what I know.’ There was a look of fear in his eyes now.

Balthasar smiled. ‘I don’t think you have. I don’t think you have told us anything.’ He glanced at Eicher. ‘We’re wasting time.’ He suddenly felt light-headed again and, stepping from the room and out into the glaringly bright afternoon sun, shielded his eyes. ‘You,’ he said, to the men standing guard outside, ‘get the prisoner out here.’

John Pendlebury had hoped that he might yet survive. When he had been hit the day before, he had thought he was moments from death, but then he had been taken back and tended, his wound cleaned and dressed. When the questioning began, he knew he could tell them nothing, but although they were not getting the information they wanted from him, a part of him clung to the belief that perhaps he would be saved after all. His andartes might rescue him, or the British overrun the German positions. Maybe the Germans would keep questioning him further.

But the German officer was becoming impatient – and angry. He could see that. Not that he blamed him. It must have been a demoralizing few days for them. The man did not look well either: the sweaty brow, the grimaces of discomfort. It had been the note that had sealed his fate. The German Oberleutnant knew he had written it, no matter how much he might deny it. He cursed himself – he had walked into that trap; vanity had got the better of him.

And now two paratroopers were hoisting him up off the bed, the pain shooting through him, like a bolt, so that he could not help but cry out. Roughly, they helped him across the room, into the kitchen and out into the blazing heat. Wearing his cotton trousers, his chest bare except for his bandages, he was taken around the side of the house until they reached a windowless stone wall.

So this is it. Thirty-six years of life, of love, of learning, about to end. He was glad he was on Crete, the place he loved above any other in the world, but he was desperately sad that he could not see or speak to his wife or to his children. Daniel and Jenny – he wouldn’t watch them grow up, flower into adulthood. He had not seen any of them for nearly a year, and although he had missed them, he had been too busy, too preoccupied, to let their absence from his life trouble him unduly. And yet, in his last moments, he yearned for them. A heavy weight consumed him, one he recognized as grief.

‘Your last chance,’ said the German officer. ‘Tell me all you know.’

‘I know nothing,’ mumbled Pendlebury. His mind turned to Vaughan. His friend had been right – it had been a game of sorts. A wonderful, exciting, exhilarating adventure. He’d never felt closer to those kings and warriors who had ruled and fought on this island thousands of years before, and yet like many of them, his end would be as bloody, as brutal. Perhaps it was fitting.

‘Very well,’ said the German. He nodded to the two men.

The cock of their Schmeissers, metal being drawn against a tight spring. Pendlebury felt his body tense: he was shaking, every muscle in his body quivering. Fear? Yes – but more than that, a deep, uncontrollable sadness and loneliness.

A sharp rattle and instantly he felt as though a huge fist had smashed him into the wall behind, and then he was no longer standing, but lying on the ground, the sun high above, the sky a deep eternal blue. There was no pain, just the sensation that he was slipping, falling, the earth closing around him.

As John Pendlebury was breathing his last amid a widening pool of blood and dirt, Major General Freyberg was considering the terrible responsibility of high command. He had the best part of fifty thousand men under him – fifty thousand for whom he was responsible.

It was a little after five in the afternoon, and although it was cool enough in their quarry headquarters and still oppressively hot outside, he felt compelled to step out of the cavern hewn from the side of the hill. There were simply too many staff officers in there – men with drawn, taut faces, waiting anxiously for the arrival of runners with news, but who clearly already feared the worst. The whiff of failure hung heavy in the air, more pungent than body odour. Never had he felt the eyes of his staff so keenly upon him. There was no discernible sign that they blamed him; rather, he sensed they were looking to him, their brave, decorated leader, to somehow pull something magical out of the bag and resolve the situation.

The truth was, however, that he wished there was someone he could turn to. When he had been younger, command had come so easily. All he had had to do was make sure his men were in good spirits, then fight with reckless bravery and they all followed. Being personally fearless had somehow been enough. And he could honestly say that he had never felt scared before – rather, he had been overcome by an overwhelming wave of exhilaration, his body and mind whirring with adrenalin and vitality.

But he was not fighting any more, not personally. He was in the grandstand, moving the kind of soldiers he had once been among on the battlefield, and for the first time in his life he did feel scared – not for himself, but over what to do. Climbing across the rocky ground, he felt the sweat from his brow running down the side of his face. Everyone was sweating a great deal – the quarry reeked of it, great dark patches staining their cotton uniforms – but they were used to it. They were getting used to defeat as well. Perhaps that’s it. They had developed a losing habit; perhaps it was affecting their judgement, which was being eaten away by a lack of confidence, an expectation of failure that shadowed all they did. Pausing by a smooth-surfaced rock, he saw a lizard dart away and sat down, breathed heavily in and out a few times, then took out a cigarette from an old, darkening silver case, and lit it.

It had only dawned on him that afternoon what a catastrophic mistake he had made. All morning, he had misread the situation. The counter-attack had gone in late, but Hargest had told Puttick that although there had been a steady flow of enemy planes coming into Maleme they were taking troops off the island, not bringing them in. Initially, he had believed this too, but then suddenly, as he had been watching and listening to the continued fighting from the OP, the penny had dropped. Moments later, news had arrived of the heavy fighting by the Maori and 20th Battalions as they had continued to claw their way up the coast. They had still not even reached the airfield, let alone won it back. He had believed the reports because he had wanted to believe them – but, of course, the Huns weren’t evacuating. Why on earth would they be, when the airfield was still theirs? No, they had been bringing in more and more troops, ammunition and supplies all day.

Freyberg took off his tin helmet and rubbed his hands across his face. He had been a fool – a damned, bloody-minded fool. He had been so focused on the threat of a seaborne invasion – and, yes, he had lacked sufficient confidence in the navy and his own defences that an invasion could be repulsed – that he had failed to recognize the real danger even though it had been unfolding right under his nose. If only he had released 20th Battalion when he had had the chance! Then both they and the Maori could have attacked at dusk, with the rest of