Blood of Honour

Cretan Division but, you know, we’re only soldiers, not generals or admirals.’ He glanced shiftily at Sykes and Tanner. ‘Come on, drink it, Jack. We don’t want a bloody scene. It’s not worth it.’

‘He’s right, Jack,’ said Sykes. ‘Drink it up and let’s just walk out of here.’ He lifted his glass, drank, then grimaced and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

‘And what about you?’ said the man, nodding towards Tanner. ‘Your friends have shown some manners, but not you, eh?’

Tanner sipped his coffee, but said nothing.

‘Sir,’ hissed Sykes. ‘Please, mate. Just drink it.’

‘The mighty British Empire,’ said the man, scratching his cheek, ‘so mighty that her army is always running away. And what are you going to do if the Germans come here, eh? Run away again. We don’t want the horse that always bolts. We want Cretans to fight. Cretans who will stand their ground and fight like men for their country. For their homes.’ He laughed, but without mirth. ‘But, oh, no, we do not have any of our division because they were left to rot on the Albanian Front. Instead we are sent you. Cowards, men who like to run.’

At this Tanner slammed his fist into the table, pushed back his chair and picked up his shot glass.

‘Don’t,’ said Sykes.

‘Steady, Jack,’ said Woodman. ‘Come on, leave it.’

‘No,’ said Tanner, ‘I’ve had it. I’m not listening to this crap.’

The Cretans were laughing as Tanner walked over to them. Stopping by the big man, he slammed the glass on the table. ‘You can take your drink,’ he said, ‘and shove it up your arse.’

There was a sudden silence in the bar. The old men had stopped playing their games; the other three at the table now shot furtive glances at each other, while the smile on the big man’s face vanished.

‘Do you think I give a toss about this place?’ snarled Tanner. ‘I’ve lost good men fighting for your country. I’ve lost good men in Norway and Belgium and France and North bloody Africa. Not one of them was a coward, and nor am I, and nor are my friends. Now apologize. I want to hear you take that back.’ He stared at the man, his eyes unblinking.

‘I’ll kill you before I say anything of the sort.’ He spoke to the others, turning his back on Tanner as he did so.

Grabbing his shoulder, Tanner spun him around. ‘Apologize.’

The man now pushed back his chair and stood up to face him.

‘Outside then,’ said Tanner.

Sykes was beside him now. ‘It’s not worth it. Walk away, sir.’

Tanner turned on his friend. ‘Walk away? Walk away? Who do you think I am, Stan?’

‘Come on, then,’ said the man, clearing another chair out of his way. ‘Outside.’

Out in the street, Tanner turned to face the Cretan, vaguely conscious of the watching eyes of the old men happy to observe such sport. Where were Sykes and Woodman? he wondered, but dared not take his eye off the Cretan, who was broad-chested, with large hands. Strength, of course, was important, but so too were agility and speed. And the willingness to fight ugly. In a boxing ring there were rules, but he knew there were none now, and although he had no intention of killing this man, he wanted to hurt and humiliate him. Tanner had fought many times, in and out of the ring, but the sport of boxing had taught him a number of useful lessons, not least the need to weigh up an opponent. This Cretan was confident in his ability to take on a man of equal height, and that told Tanner he needed to be cautious until he knew the capabilities of his opponent.

For a few moments, they circled each other, the Cretan with his arms half raised, Tanner with his loose by his sides, a position he hoped would lure the man into making the first move.

‘Come on, Englishman,’ growled the Cretan, goading Tanner towards him with his hands.

Tanner smiled, then took two quick steps forward and swiftly dipped his left shoulder as though about to punch with his left hand, a dummy move designed to make the Cretan think he was left-handed and to encourage him to strike. The ruse worked as the Cretan swiftly flung out a heavy right punch so fast that even Tanner was surprised. Tanner moved his head but not before receiving a glancing blow across his temple, causing his footwork to falter and tipping him slightly off balance. Even so, the Cretan had over-extended and Tanner was able to drive in a savage right hook – not a knock-out blow, but one hard enough to make the Cretan gasp, and in that split second, Tanner kicked his right foot hard against the man’s knee, making his enemy cry out, then rammed his left boot straight into his crotch. As the Cretan grunted in agony, Tanner pushed back his right fist and, with the base of his hand, thrust a sharp jab into his opponent’s neck. The four moves had taken no more than two seconds, but Tanner knew he’d not yet caused any real damage: the blow to the head had not been hard enough to break any bones, or the one to the knee. Even so, the Cretan now staggered backwards, doubled up.

Tanner stepped towards him. ‘Now say you’re sorry,’ he said. Then something caught his eye. Looking up, he saw Woodman at the end of the road frantically waving and pointing to his left, down in the direction of the port. Damn him, thought Tanner.

A sudden stab of pain struck his legs and coursed through his entire body. Staggering, he saw the remains of a chair splintering at his feet, and then the Cretan was lunging at him, his bear-like arms gripping him around the waist and pushing him backwards. Tanner was already off balance, and the man’s weight forced him against a table. Cracking his head first on the wood, then again as he crashed to the ground, he was momentarily dazed and, in that time, the Cretan had clasped his enormous hands around his neck and was squeezing, starving Tanner of air and pressing against his trachea. The man’s nails were clawing into his neck too. The stench of alcohol, stale tobacco and sweat was overwhelming as the Cretan breathed heavily over him, grimacing with rage and effort. Tanner felt suppressed not only by the vice-like grip around his neck, but also by the hot, heavy weight of the man’s body on his. Sweat was running down the Cretan’s face, and a droplet fell into Tanner’s eye, stinging with its saltiness.

Tanner could feel desperation welling within him, and was vaguely conscious of his legs kicking, as it occurred to him that this wild Cretan might be as good as his word and kill him, after all. With his senses now rapidly fading, he knew he had just moments in which to break free and so, despite the overpowering urge to do otherwise, he allowed his eyes to flicker and his head to loll. As he had hoped, the Cretan’s grip lessened fractionally. In that instant, Tanner brought both his arms inside those of the Cretan and, summoning all his remaining strength, quickly prised them apart. Then he brought his head up with a sudden sharp jerk, his forehead smashing into the man’s nose. The Cretan yelled with pain and sat up, clutching his hands to his face. Still pinned to the ground, Tanner reached for a chair and swung it into the man’s head, knocking him sideways. He got to his feet, and kicked again, this time into the Cretan’s side, aiming for the kidney, then picked up another chair, ready to smash it down on him.

A pistol shot rang out, the report jarringly loud in the narrow confines of the street, and Tanner froze, panting, his head clammy with sweat and blood, the chair still in his hand.

‘Stop!’ shouted a man. ‘Stop that right now!’

Tanner staggered backwards, his legs weak, and turned to see a British officer striding towards them, while a column of some forty soldiers waited at the end of the street. Hurrying behind the officer were several of his men, and, behind them, Woodman and Sykes.

Bloody hell, thought Tanner, dropping the chair and staggering towards a table, his hands groping for support. He hurt like hell – his legs, his head, his neck. Christ, he could barely speak. He tried to clear his throat.

‘Get up, the pair of you,’ called the officer, who, Tanner now saw, was a second lieutenant.

The Cretan roused himself, eyed Tanner with hatred, then suddenly produced a knife with which he made a lunge. Parrying the thrust, Tanner caught the Cretan’s wrist, twisted himself out of the way and rammed his elbow hard into the man’s stomach, then deftly moved clear.

‘That’s it!’ said the lieutenant, pointing his Webley at the Cretan. ‘Drop that knife. Now!’

Breathing heavily, the Cretan glared at the lieutenant, then, rather than dropping it, slowly put his knife away. Tanner saw the barrel of the revolver was shaking in the lieutenant’s hand. ‘You!’ he said, pointing to three of the new arrivals, ‘put these men under arrest.’ Now rifles were being pointed at both of them, bolts already drawn back. There was alarm in the eyes of the lieutenant and, Tanner saw, fear in those of one of the other men, a young lad. New boys, he thought. No sudden movements. Jesus, that was all he needed: to have survived so much only to be shot by one of his own side.