Blood of Honour

again but the elevation was wrong, their firing late on the targets, and in seconds the bombs were exploding, one landing in the centre of the ship between the port-side derrick and the pompom gun deck. Tanner turned his back and shielded his face from the blast, but even so a piece of flying shrapnel nicked his temple. Putting a finger to the wound briefly, he looked across at the other Rangers and the damage-control parties and saw most were still on the ground, only slowly raising their dazed heads.

Beneath the pompom, a large hole had been ripped out of the deck and upper side of the ship. The remains of a lifeboat, its timbers splintered and splayed, hung limply from the contorted and twisted frame of the derrick. Of the men who had been waiting there moments before there was now no sign. Nor was the pompom firing, yet between the din of the guns he could hear aircraft still circling, then spotted one banking in a wide arc in front of them.

Uncontrollable rage welled within him, and he now ran along the deck, slipped on some blood, tripped, fell, cursed and scrambled up again. Several body parts and globs of flesh lay splattered against the torpedo tube mount, the pompom mount, and across the shredded iron top deck. Through the smoke, Tanner heard the screams of dying men, pushed his way past a staggering sailor, and scrambled up the still intact metal ladder on the starboard side of the pompom deck. Heaving himself up, he took a rapid glance at the gun position. The port side was badly damaged from the blast, while the cabouche to the front was shattered. Behind the canvas lay two dead men.

The gunner still sat in his seat at his weapon, his head lolled back and groaning. Tanner hurried to him and grabbed his shoulders, then saw that half of the man’s face had been blown away, while his right arm was nothing more than a bloody mess of sinew and bone. Tanner clasped his arms around the gunner’s chest and pulled him out of the seat. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he muttered, as the man gasped. Tanner laid him on the deck beside the gun mounting and clambered onto the seat.

Wiping blood from his face, he looked at the weapon. It seemed to be undamaged, despite some obvious shrapnel nicks; steel was tougher than flesh and bone. ‘How do you fire this bloody thing?’ he mouthed to himself. Either side were two large ammunition feedrails still full of two-pound cannon shells. There were hand wheels either side too. Tanner turned one to his left – ah, elevation – and then another on his right – traverse – as the barrels rose and the weapon swivelled on its mount. Beside the breech on his left there was a crank – the firing handle? He glanced out as the smoke cleared. Approaching from the east were two Junkers coming around for another attack, but this time they were below the level of the sun and he now saw them clearly before they crossed the blinding brightness. He was no longer aware of any sound apart from a ringing in his ears; the din of the guns, the shouts and screams of wounded and dying men had gone. Traversing the gun so that it pointed directly out to sea, he turned the crank and, to his relief, a volley of shells punched from each of the four barrels. Smiling grimly to himself, he watched the two aircraft approach. One, he now saw, was heading straight for Halberd, the other for Havock.

On his own, he could not fire and change the elevation of the gun at the same time; it meant he had just one chance. Like shooting a pheasant, he told himself. Carefully he lined his aim on the first aircraft. The ship was still moving, but he could traverse the gun. Aim off a generous amount, he decided, open fire, and let that Jerry bastard fly straight into it. The two aircraft roared towards them – eight hundred yards, six hundred, four hundred, two hundred – now! Tanner turned the crank, the barrels pumped out their shells but immediately he saw his aim was wide. He swore – there was no time to traverse again – but then the ship lurched to port and the lead Junkers flew directly into his line of fire. Cannon shells tore into the cockpit and fuselage just a hundred yards from the port side of the ship. A puff of smoke, then flame.

Inside the plane, Oberleutnant Bruhle had a brief moment of realization, the controls slipped from his hands and then, as the Junkers hurtled over Halberd, first a fuel tank and then the bomb bay exploded, the aircraft erupting into a mass of tumbling flame that scorched an arced path across the sky before plunging with a hiss of smoke and steam into the sea.

Tanner wiped the blood from his face once more. ‘Got you,’ he said.

*

HMS Halberd had safely docked at Suda just under two hours later, while Havock continued on her way to Alexandria. The remaining Junkers had turned for home after their Staffel Kapitan had been killed, and the ships had not been troubled again. Even so it was ironic that Havock, which had somehow come through the attack entirely unscathed, should be full of troops destined for Egypt, while Halberd, in desperate need of a lengthy stint under repair at Alexandria, should have to go to Crete first. Furthermore, at Suda, her crew learned that they would be taking their cargo of troops on to Heraklion where, it had been decided, the Yorks Rangers would be joining 14th Infantry Brigade in the defence of the port and airfield there.

Twelve sailors and two Rangers had been killed by the bomb on the iron deck. A further fourteen men had been wounded, of whom two were thought unlikely to live. Having safely unloaded their injured, the rest of the Rangers had trooped off, each company marching to an assembly area away from the quayside where they had been fed and given tea, while Halberd’s crew tidied their ship. In the afternoon, Suda was attacked by more bombers. This time, there were a number of anti-aircraft guns to help repel the intruders, both around the harbour and on the long ridge between the bay and the open sea. But although Halberd was not struck this time, a number of half-sunken wrecks in the bay showed that the Luftwaffe had had their fair share of success. As it was, some stores were hit and part of the quay was damaged, and after they had gone, a great column of smoke from the burning warehouse rose slowly into the sky, filling the air with the rich and biting stench of burning rubber.

At dusk, the men were boarded once more to begin the last leg of their journey, a trip of only a few hours. Different members of the crew were manning the guns now, and although there was still a threat from the air, the Rangers had been stood down. Even so, Tanner preferred to be out on deck and, accompanied by Sykes, returned to the stern of the ship, where they perched themselves against the hatch in front of Y Gun.

‘Christ,’ said Tanner, as they eased past a half-submerged wreck. He rubbed his brow; his head ached from the nick he had received earlier. A couple of stitches had closed the wound, but it throbbed. Sykes lit two cigarettes, then passed one to his friend.

He was a small man, with a lean face and carefully combed, brilliantined hair – even after long days of retreat, he had barely ever had a hair out of place. Like Tanner, he was not from Yorkshire, but while the CSM was a Wiltshireman, born and raised on the land, Sykes was from Deptford in London. As outsiders, they had recognized in each other a common bond, and as mutual trust and friendship had developed during more than a year of fighting, both men had come to appreciate that they complemented each other rather well. The time would come one day, inevitably, when they would head their separate ways. After all, the odds were that at some point one or other would be badly wounded or even killed, and if not that then the army’s system of promotion and progression meant they could not remain in the same company for ever. Not that Sykes gave it much thought. He had long ago, even before the war, learned not to think too far ahead: it did not pay to brood. In any case, who knew what was round the corner? There was no point worrying about what might not happen.

For a few minutes he watched the setting sun. Only a slip of burning orange now remained on the horizon. Then he saw it drop below the ridge at the end of the bay, leaving in its wake a sky of pink that rose into a deep and ever darkening blue. He glanced at Tanner, who was still gazing out to sea. His friend was hard to read. He had always thought that Tanner was, like him, a man who took each day as it came. He had never really spoken to him about his past, but he knew that, like him, Tanner had left home in a hurry. Both men were survivors, too – another unspoken bond. Yet his friend was brooding. Ever since they had been sent to Greece, Tanner had been even more taciturn than usual.

It was Tanner’s turn to pull out two cigarettes, silently light them both and pass one to Sykes.

‘Ta,’ said Sykes, holding the cigarette between his finger and thumb. ‘At least the air’s improved,’ he added, breathing in deeply. ‘That burning rubber was giving me a headache.’ Tanner said nothing so Sykes continued, ‘And at least we should have a quieter time of things here. I mean, I can’t really see Jerry having a crack at this place. I’m sure he’ll bomb us all right, but you have to admit, an island like this should be an easy enough place to defend. Mine the harbour entrances, line them and the airfields with a good load of artillery, and get the men dug in – should be able to throw any unwanted visitors back, no problem.’

Tanner turned on him. ‘Haven’t you learned anything this past year? Jesus, Stan, Jerry’s only got to turn up