Blood of Honour

smiled, then said to Peploe, ‘And assuming you’re successful and make it safely back here, we need to get you and the rest of your men, John, off the island.’

‘Yes. Do you have any ideas?’

‘I do, as it happens. I don’t know how much Captain Vaughan has told you, but Major Bruce-Mitford and I had been working with Pendlebury for some time over here, and will continue to work here on the island. Bandouvas and I have just come from the Amari Valley where, with Bruce-Mitford, we’ve set up something of a base in a village called Yerakari. Bruce-Mitford’s still there and we’ve been in touch with Cairo.’

‘You’ve got a wireless set?’ said Peploe.

‘One of the very few the British Army ever had on the island.’ He smiled ruefully.

‘It’s one of the disgraces of the war,’ said Vaughan. ‘Why the hell the powers that be didn’t twig this earlier, God only knows.’

‘It was the same in France,’ said Peploe. ‘No one had a clue what was going on half the time and all the while it seemed like every other Jerry had a set.’

‘Anyway,’ said Hanford, ‘fortunately we do have a set and we’re in touch with Cairo. They’re sending a submarine. It’s coming in a week with a Commander Pool on board, a naval man who apparently knows Crete intimately from before the war. He’s suggested Preveli.’

‘A good choice,’ said Satanas. ‘It is a monastery on the headland overlooking the sea, but there are paths leading down to the shore. Father Langouvardos will help. I know him and he is not only a very holy man but also a true Cretan patriot.’

‘In a week?’ said Peploe. ‘Did they say when exactly?’

‘Not yet. Major Bruce-Mitford is going to make contact with Father Langouvardos and then we’ll await confirmation from Cairo. But if we can, we’ll try to get you out on the sub when it comes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Peploe. ‘But, first, some of us have a mission to carry out.’ He looked at the Cretan kapitans opposite him. ‘Tomorrow night, then?’

‘Yes, tomorrow,’ said Satanas.

Tomorrow, thought Tanner. He knew it was a mission fraught with danger, that there was every chance something would go terribly wrong and that they might all get themselves killed. And yet it would give them a chance to fight back, to show those bastards that not all British troops on Crete had been ready to roll over. And he also wanted to get Alexis out of there; he wanted that badly. He was taking it far too personally, he knew, but unless they attempted this mission, his conscience would never rest. Honour demanded it.

19

Sunday, 1 June, a little after 6 p.m. Oberleutnant Balthasar walked around the blackened remains of the British truck. The paint had gone entirely, leaving patches of bare steel; so too had the tyres and the timber. Of the driver and his companion two charred corpses could just about be recognized while several bodies were discernible among the ash and debris in the back. On the grass nearby two more badly burned bodies lay where they had died – their blackened forms more obviously once human. Three others had been found the day before among the olives.

Balthasar had not seen them. Indeed, he had been in Heraklion at the time at a meeting with Major Schulz, and so in his absence Leutnant Eicher had sent Mittler’s gruppe to investigate as soon as they saw the smoke pitching into the sky. One of the men had claimed he had heard shots, but Mittler had returned convinced that the loss of the men and the truck had been an accident and nothing more. The men had still had their weapons, and although there were signs of trampled grass, he had concluded that had been caused by the truck as it had fallen down the slope. Hitting two trees had caused the petrol to explode, killing most of the men before they’d had a chance to jump clear.

The three men from the olive groves had been brought back and buried and were already under the ground by the time Balthasar had returned and been given the news. He wished he had had a chance to examine the bodies, but although he had accepted Mittler’s version of events initially, there had been something about it that did not seem quite right to him – something he had not been able to put his finger on until that afternoon. Then it had dawned on him: any Cretan for miles around would have seen the smoke – would have probably heard the crash and any explosion. Surely someone would have come along and picked the men clean of weapons – Balthasar was not so naive as to believe the burning of Sarhos had brought about the end of all Cretan resistance. No, what was strange was that the three men who had been found had still had their weapons with them.

Balthasar had mulled this over that afternoon and then had decided to go and look for himself.

‘Perhaps the brakes failed,’ said Unteroffizier Mittler, as they had stood on the road where the truck had come off.

‘Perhaps,’ Balthasar had replied, his voice terse. And now he was looking over the wreck itself. He peered closely at the bodies on the grass beside the truck. Both men were face down, so he turned the first over. Patches of skin on his chest had been roasted dark, but not black.

‘Here,’ said Balthasar. ‘What do you make of that?’

Mittler looked. ‘The flames have not burned him so badly where he has been lying in the grass.’

‘They have hardly burned him at all in places, Mittler. That tells us something, does it not?’ Mittler looked blank. ‘It tells us, Mittler,’ said Balthasar, exasperation creeping into his voice, ‘that there should be bits of uniform still clinging to his front. But there is nothing, is there? No scraps of cotton, no belt buckle. No helmet for that matter. Where is it?’

‘You think they have been stripped?’

‘Yes, Mittler, that is exactly what I think.’ He now peered into the remains of the truck. ‘Here,’ he said, examining the driver. ‘A belt buckle.’ He then looked into the mess that had once been the back of the Morris. ‘But nothing among this lot. Even if they were wearing their field caps they would have had their helmets with them.’

‘They did, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Mittler. ‘I saw them leave.’

‘And yet they are not here any more. Something should have remained of them.’ He whisked away several flies now hovering around. It had been another hot day, and even now, as evening was drawing in, the heat sat heavily in the air. ‘Get a party up here to collect and bury the remains of these men, Mittler. And try to be a bit more observant in future.’

‘Yes, Herr Oberleutnant. But why would the Cretans want our uniforms?’

‘If they had taken only boots, Mittler, I would have said it was because they were after decent footwear. But they have taken everything, yet wanted us to believe this was just an accident and nothing more. If you can’t work it out for yourself, then I’m certainly not going to tell you.’

They headed back, Mittler driving, Balthasar deep in thought. Having reached the camp he ordered Mittler to drive on, to Heraklion and to the Megaron. To his intense frustration, neither Schulz nor Brauer was there – Schulz was visiting the 1st Battalion at the Jesus Bastion and Brauer was at the airfield although due back any moment. Balthasar looked at his watch, uncertain whether to head straight to the bastion or to wait for Brauer. It was now half past seven, the light beginning to fade.

‘When exactly are you expecting Oberst Brauer?’ he asked the clerk in the office adjoining Brauer’s.

‘Half an hour ago, Herr Oberleutnant.’

Balthasar looked at his watch again, then left and began to pace the corridor on the first floor outside Brauer’s office. He would stay where he was, praying he was being both overly cautious and that the colonel would return soon.

It was just after eight when Brauer appeared, his voice ringing out before Balthasar saw him as he climbed the staircase.

‘Oberleutnant Balthasar.’ He smiled. ‘Have you been waiting for me?’

‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ said Balthasar, saluting.

‘Come in, come in,’ said Brauer, leading the way into his office. He paused by his desk to fit a cigarette into his holder then lit it with a gold lighter. ‘How can I help?’