lit a cigarette, breathing in deeply the sweet-smelling fumes and watching the smoke swirl away on the light breeze. Well, he had had enough of running away. Here on Crete, he told himself, if the enemy came, he would stand and fight; and if he died in so doing, then at least he would have done so with his honour intact.
3
Monday, 19 May, a little after eleven in the morning. In a leafy side-street a stone’s throw from the imposing Holy Church of St Titus stood one of Heraklion’s many
Sitting at tables both outside and in were a number of old and middle-aged men playing backgammon, their moustaches twitching, tanned faces creased with frowns of concentration or sudden laughter. The Luftwaffe might be coming over every day to attack the harbour and airfield, but that did not stop the Cretans going about their daily business – which, in the case of many of the men, meant sitting in a preferred
It was Sergeant Stan Sykes who had spotted Aratiko’s the day before, following the Rangers’ move to join the mixed force of Greek regiments and Cretans covering the town. This realignment of 14th Infantry Brigade had been prompted by the arrival of the Leicesters, who had taken up positions to the south-east of the town between the 2/4th Australians, the 2nd King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers and 2nd York and Lancashire Regiment, thus freeing up a battalion to reinforce the town. Since the Leicesters were new to the island, Brigadier Chappel considered it prudent not to place them alongside the Greeks; and because the Rangers had been closest to Heraklion, it was they who had been moved. The men were delighted – after all, a town had plenty more to offer than the countryside where there was little but olive and fruit groves.
‘Here,’ said Sykes, as he, Tanner and Staff Sergeant Woodman turned into the street. ‘I told you it was discreet, didn’t I?’
‘Very good, Stan,’ said Tanner. ‘Now, if we can just find ourselves a little table at the back, it’ll be even better.’
They wove their way past the tables on the street, through the open door and looked around. The old men glanced up, then returned to their games, but there was another group of men, younger, sitting at a table near the front, who eyed the newcomers suspiciously. Tanner caught the eye of one. Perhaps late twenties, a luxuriant black moustache and a three-day beard, wearing a black waistcoat over a white shirt, loose black linen trousers and knee-length leather boots. His hair was long, swept back off his head loosely. He was a big man, Tanner noted, about his own height. Strong-looking, too.
‘What about that one?’ said Sykes, pointing to a table at the back of the room, close to the bar.
‘Fine,’ said Tanner.
They settled around the table, chairs scraping loudly on the stone floor, took off their helmets and rested their rifles against the wall, then lit cigarettes. The barman looked at them –
‘I suppose we’d better just have coffee,’ said Sykes.
‘You should, at any rate,’ said Woodman. ‘You’re the one that’s got to impress his new platoon commander.’ More replacements had been due in that morning, including a new subaltern for B Company. It was why Tanner and Sykes had been sent to Battalion Headquarters, newly established in an old Venetian house opposite the Jesus Bastion beside the Kenouria Gate, one of seven arrow-headed forts built along the town walls. When they had reached HQ, however, news had just arrived that the boat from Alexandria would be late. The new time of arrival was estimated to be after midday. Since it was hardly worth heading back to their new positions either side of the Knossos road they had decided to wait in town instead, slowly making their way down to the port via this bar, which Sykes had spotted earlier. But while there was nothing wrong in that, it did not pay to be seen passing the time of day in bars while others were still preparing defences and keeping watch for enemy parachutists.
Tanner held up three fingers to the barman. ‘Three coffees,’ he said, ‘
‘I don’t know that I want coffee,’ said Woodman. ‘What about a nice cool beer?’
‘You go right ahead, Woody,’ said Tanner.
‘But you won’t join me?’
‘Not when the Germans might attack at any moment.’
‘You’re still convinced they’re going to, then?’
‘I’m sure of it. All this bombing – it’s them softening us up. I hope they bloody well do come. Then we can shoot the bastards and kick them back to Greece.’ He was talking with a confidence he did not feel. Once again, there was almost no RAF. It also worried him greatly that the Allied forces on Crete all seemed to be centred around the three main towns along the north coast: Canea, near Suda Bay in the west, Rethymno in the centre and then Heraklion. He’d been to Brigade Headquarters near the airfield and he had seen plenty of telephones and telephone wire, but little evidence of any radios. As he knew from bitter experience, once the fighting started, the phone lines were almost the first thing to go. He brushed away a fly from his trousers. The battalion had been issued with khaki drill during the past few days, and most had gladly made the change, swapping their thick serge battledress for the cooler sandy-coloured cotton. In Greece, the thick wool of their uniforms had been just about bearable during the day and they had been grateful for it at night, but now that it was May, the temperature was rising noticeably. Nobody wanted to wear it in this heat.
There had been few trousers available, but both Tanner and Sykes had managed to get two pairs each, as had Captain Peploe; there were a number of perks to being CSM but one was getting first pick of anything that passed the way of the company quarter-master sergeant, in this case new uniforms. And Tanner had been mightily relieved not to have to wear the KD shorts, not because he was worried about his appearance – although he did think Bombay Bloomers looked ridiculous – but because experience in India had taught him that it was easy for bare legs to become sunburned, scratched, cut and then infected. A layer of thick cotton – and KD was sturdy stuff – provided a useful extra layer of protection. When he passed this piece of wisdom to Sykes and Peploe, they were quick to follow his lead. Tanner had also managed to get a pair of denim battledress trousers from some Australians out near the airfield, and he was particularly pleased with them. Unlike the khaki drill trousers, they still had the large patch pocket on the left leg and a smaller dressing pocket on the right, as well as the two normal hip pockets, but were every bit as light and cool as the KD pattern. It was these he was wearing now, along with his new KD collared shirt.
Tanner stubbed out his cigarette and, as he did so, noticed the barman glance at the young men near the front of the
‘What’s all this?’ said Woody, lifting a glass and examining it closely.
‘Raki,’ said the barman. He inclined his head towards the men near the front.
‘To our brave British allies,’ said the big man, in heavily accented English. Woody raised his glass and was about to drink when the man added, ‘The British who come over to Greece and then run away again, leaving our Cretan brothers stranded. Where is the Cretan Division now, Englishmen? Either dead or in the hands of Nazis. Your navy didn’t think they were worth rescuing.’
Tanner stiffened, the muscles in his face taut. Pushing away the raki, he picked up his coffee instead. Sykes knew that look. ‘Leave it, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s trying to pick a fight. And he’s a big bloke, an’ all.’
‘And now you won’t drink,’ continued the man. The other three were chuckling. ‘We offer you raki, the hand of friendship, and you push it away.’
Woody raised his glass again, then downed the spirit in one gulp. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’re sorry about the
