As they neared its mouth, Tanner saw first Satanas and then Alopex emerge. The old man leaned on a rifle and watched, while the younger came out to meet them.
‘Alex,’ said Alopex, embracing Vaughan. ‘I
Tanner stepped out from behind several of the men.
‘You!’ hissed Alopex.
As Oberst Brauer had promised, more supplies had been flown in that day. They had arrived by sea, too, a number of laden caiques drifting into the harbour, and by road in newly landed and captured trucks. That morning, having reported to Schulz and Brauer at the Megaron, he had watched two British trucks, laden with paratroopers, trundle through cleared streets around the harbour. It was incredible, Balthasar had reflected, how fast supplies could come once the path was cleared. In no time Crete would be a formidable garrison.
It was with some satisfaction that he had told Schulz what he’d learned earlier that morning, and then, on the major’s insistence, Brauer.
‘What next, then, Oberleutnant?’ Brauer had asked.
‘I thought I would lead an expedition to Alopex’s village, Herr Oberst. With luck I will find some of his family there. Women and children, preferably. In my limited experience, it’s only the men who think they have anything to fear from us.’
‘Certainly there’s no point trying to catch them in the mountains,’ said Schulz.
‘So flush them out, and fight them on our terms, not theirs,’ said Brauer.
‘Yes, Herr Oberst. At the moment the Cretans have no experience of this. They will be surprised by our arrival in force and, I suspect, less guarded than they might be once word of such reprisals spreads. I want to use this first action to make sure we land a big fish.’
Brauer nodded approvingly. ‘Very sensible. I wish you luck, Oberleutnant Balthasar.’
‘There is one other thing, Herr Oberst,’ said Balthasar.
Brauer raised an eyebrow.
‘We seem to have some vehicles at last – I noticed a number of British trucks in the town as I made my way over here.’
Brauer smiled. ‘And you were thinking some transport would be very useful for conducting these operations?’
‘Yes, Herr Oberst. The villages are some miles away and surprise is of the essence. The quicker we can get in and out again, the better.’
‘He has a point, Herr Oberst,’ said Schulz.
‘All right, Balthasar. Let me see what I can arrange.’
Balthasar thanked him, saluted and left. He had had no intention of carrying out such an operation in the heat of the day, and in any case, there had been other matters to attend to, not least the integration of replacement troops into his company and the setting up of a camp. This he had established a couple of kilometres to the south- west of the town in a lush valley of vines, olives and citrus. Tents had been pitched in a lemon grove, the air smelling sweetly of fruit and wild grasses, not rotting corpses and effluent. There was a rocky spur to their left that jutted out into the valley on which an ideal observation post could be established, while on the far side, a track climbed out of the valley and led to the mountain village of Krousonas, the heart of the guerrillas’ fiefdom. Another OP was established there.
In the early afternoon, Balthasar clambered up to the OP already set up on the outcrop. The men were building a stone sangar, an MG already in position with a wide arc of fire covering the entire valley to the south and the approaches to the camp. He now had more than seventy men – men who were rested, fed and flush with victory. Here, in this undeniably beautiful valley of shimmering green, he hoped he might lure his enemy. At first glance, their canvas camp, which was now emerging between the olives, looked vulnerable yet it held well-armed and highly trained soldiers, covered by strong observation posts. If any guerrillas tried to attack, Balthasar and his men would be ready.
‘Good,’ he said, to his men at the OP. He drank from his water bottle then passed it to his men. All were glistening with sweat. He whisked away a fly and noticed a small black scorpion emerge from the disturbed rocks. Carefully, and deliberately, he raised his boot over it and drove down his heel.
‘And that is what we will do to the Cretans, Herr Oberleutnant,’ grinned one of his men.
‘Precisely,’ Balthasar replied.
Soon after, three trucks arrived, delivered at Oberst Brauer’s behest, two towing light 3.7cm anti-tank guns. The trucks were British, open-cab and open-back Morris Commercials, painted dusty desert yellow. Ten men could get into the back, two up front, and at a push a couple more standing and clinging to the bar behind the cab. Balthasar was delighted. They gave him speed and firepower, for they could carry more ammunition with them.
They left a little after six that evening, two under-strength platoons, fewer than forty men in all, driving off down the dirt road that wound its way gradually out of the valley and began climbing into the lower slopes of the mountains. They passed a couple of carts, forcing them off the road, and drove on, until up ahead they saw Krousonas nestling in the flanks of the mountain, a tight collection of white houses, bright against the green and grey hues of the land around. However, it was not to Krousonas that Balthasar meant to go that evening but Sarhos.
They reached a small village, Kitharida. A child scuttled across the road, women watched them sullenly, and as they passed a bar, an old man shook his fist. Balthasar ignored them and, once through the village, felt a throb of excitement. They were nearing their destination now. Sarhos, he knew, was a cul-de-sac, a dead-end village, with only paths leading out at the far end. At a fork in the road, they turned left, and half a kilometre further on the first houses came into view. The rear vehicle stopped, men quickly jumping out, while the other two pulled up at the centre of the village beside the bar and a stone’s throw from the tiny white Coptic church.
Immediately his men set to work, boots and rifle butts kicking on doors. The bar was cleared, old men, children and women roughly pushed out.
‘Out! Out!’ shouted the men, adhering to Balthasar’s first rule of acting both loudly and aggressively. Balthasar watched, his hands gripped around his MP40. There was a mixture of expressions on the villagers’ faces: fear, defiance, anger; a young girl was crying, her mother trying to calm her. The men herded them down the road to the church. One middle-aged man who tried to slip away and run was chased. A short burst of sub-machine-gun fire followed, a woman screamed, and the soldiers returned.
As a show of force, the anti-tank guns were unhooked and pointed towards the church. Machine-guns were slung over shoulders, rifles and sub-machine-guns tightly gripped. The rounding-up did not take long, for Sarhos was not a big place. In no time, the village had been emptied, the population huddled in the cool, dark church. It was there that Balthasar went while his men lit their torches – long staves wrapped with cloth at one end and dipped in oil – and set fire to barns, stores, even houses.
‘Kristannos,’ he called out. ‘Who here is called Kristannos?’ Anxious faces looked at each other and feet shuffled. A low murmur arose.
‘Silence!’ called Balthasar, then turned to his Greek interpreter. ‘Tell them anyone from the family Kristannos is to step forward. Immediately.’
The interpreter did so. A pause, then movement among the frightened throng. Balthasar saw an old, bearded man shuffle forward, then a thin, elderly woman.
It was the woman he supposed to be Alopex’s sister who spoke, her face proud and defiant. And pretty, Balthasar thought. Yes, definitely pretty.
‘She is Alexis Kristannos,’ said the interpreter. ‘The women with her are her mother and sister-in-law, the boy her nephew, the man her uncle.’
‘Where are the rest of them?’
‘Her brother was captured in Greece with the rest of the Cretan Division,’ the interpreter repeated back. ‘Her father is dead.’
‘What about her older brother, Giorgis?’
‘He is not in the village at the moment. He is away.’
