Jackals’ Revenge

Lamb nodded and left, closing the door on the scene as the man threw more papers on to the cheerfully blazing pyre.

Outside Lamb found the men waiting, eager-faced. ‘Sorry, no joy there I’m afraid. The top brass have cleared out and the place is full of pen-pushers from the consulate. And bloody rude ones at that. We’ll just have to make our own way.’

He was about to get back into the truck when he turned, distracted by the noise of a commotion across the square. A group of civilians were arguing. There was nothing so remarkable about that. The thing was that this group of people was so obviously English.

There were three men and a woman. One of the men was tall and well-built, another short, thin and bespectaled, the last squat and slightly overweight. They wore a variety of clothing – tropical suits, blazers and even an Argyle-patterned jersey. The fat man was dressed in an astrakhan coat and sweating profusely. The woman was dark-haired and wore a fur coat and a silk scarf. They stood around a pile of small but expensive-looking suitcases, a single cabin trunk and, bizarrely, a portable gramophone. A little moustachioed Greek in a shabby black suit, white shirt and black tie – presumably someone’s servant – hopped and muttered around them as if he intended to physically propel them out of the town and out of his responsibility.

Lamb stared at them. The British civilian population had reportedly been evacuated several days before and he was just puzzling as to what on earth they were still doing here when the woman saw him and fixed his gaze with her own. She had dark eyes and a shock of auburn hair, which fell in the style of a Hollywood star about her shoulders, spilling over her scarf and on to the collar of her coat. Lamb was transfixed by her eyes, like a rabbit in a spotlight, and before he knew it, as some predator might when focusing on its quarry, she was running across the square towards him.

‘Sorry, I’m so sorry. Can you help? We’re English. Well, most of us are. All apart from poor Mr Papandreou, who lost his wife in an air raid.’ She put out her hand and for a second Lamb wasn’t sure whether she expected him to kiss it or shake it. He chose the latter. ‘Sorry. Miranda Hartley.’

She spoke with a clipped voice that betrayed an upbringing in the home counties and for a moment Lamb was transported back in time to another world, the world of his ex-wife and her friends. Lamb was frozen, lost for words, but only for a second. ‘Yes. I can see that. I’m not sure …’

‘Where have you come from? Have you any news?’ She smiled. ‘I suppose you’re sworn to secrecy. Have you been … at the front?’

He looked at her and tried to work out what she might be doing here. Was she the wife of a diplomat? An aristocrat who had missed the boat? He muttered, ‘No, no news I’m afraid. No good news, at least. We’re just looking for a way out.’

She smiled. ‘So are we. We must get away before the Germans get here. My husband is very important. He’s a writer. A novelist. You’ve probably heard of him. Julian Hartley. Over there, with the glasses.’ She waited for the acknowledgement, the recognition, the nod of the head, but none came.

Lamb saw her disappointment. ‘Yes, of course. Julian Hartley. Yes, you must get away.’

‘We were here on a lecture tour, you see. Julian’s publisher’s idea. Good for his public image, and Julian took Classics at Magdalene. In fact he knows Greece quite well. Actually he desperately wanted to come back to find material for his next book. It’s set here, you see. Lovely story. We were guests with the university. That’s how we met Mr Papandreous. Well, of course, I just had to come. And then all this happened. But you know you have to admit it. The Greeks are pretty indolent, aren’t they. Don’t you think that Rome is by far the nobler civilisation? Il Duce wants to return them to that time.’

‘You admire Mussolini?’

She looked shocked. ‘Don’t you? You know he’s really done wonders for that country.’

‘But not too much for its army.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. I’m not a soldier. Not like you. So you will help us, Captain?’

‘Well, I don’t really see how I can. You see I have orders. You know how it is.’

A man detached himself from the group and approached them, not her husband, the apparently famous writer, but a heavy-set man in his early thirties, dressed in white flannels and a blazer. A man, thought Lamb, dressed more for a riverside regatta than a war zone. He beamed at Lamb and spoke in a deep, self-consciously masculine voice, oozing confidence.

‘Comberwell. Freddie Comberwell. Have we met?’

Lamb did not make a habit of taking an instant dislike to people, but this man was an exception. Smiling, he shook his head. ‘No. I really don’t think so. Peter Lamb, North Kents.’

‘The Jackals. Golly. We are in safe hands. Seem to have got ourselves into a bit of a pickle. I was here on business, of course. I’m in oil. Cod liver oil. The Greeks can’t get enough of it. Worth a fortune. All those babies, you see. We actually had a factory here in Athens. Direct hit, wouldn’t you know it. It’s going to cost the company thousands. I’ve got to get home. Make my report. What a bloody shambles.’

This was becoming ridiculous, thought Lamb. The last thing he wanted was to find himself responsible for a bunch of civilians. Lamb went on, ‘Now look, I’m sorry but I have to reach my regiment in Egypt. I really don’t think …’

Comberwell was not to be dissuaded. ‘The thing is, old man, we’re really a bit stuck. Thought perhaps you might help.’

‘I’d love to, but as I was saying to Mrs Hartley I have orders. There’s nothing I can do. The British consul should be able to …’

Comberwell became agitated. ‘The consul’s gone. Didn’t you hear? Took a sea-plane to Alex yesterday. That’s why we’re stuck, old man.’

‘Isn’t there anyone else at the Legation?’

‘No, no one. We’ve been there. Just an odious little man called Dobson. Burning papers. Turned us away.’

Lamb nodded. ‘Yes, I met him too.’

‘Well, how do you suggest we are going to get out of here?’

Lamb shrugged. ‘I should get down to Piraeus, if I were you. The harbour. Get aboard whatever you can. There’s sure to be a boat.’

‘But what I mean is, how on earth are we going to get there?’

Lamb bit his lip and counted to ten. As he did so a stick of bombs fell less than half a mile inland in a series of explosions. Mrs Hartley jumped and gave a little shriek.

Lamb looked at Comberwell in desperation. ‘Oh, use your initiative, man, for God’s sake.’

He turned away in momentary disgust and despair. Very soon, he thought, this is the sort of man who if he manages to ever get back home is going to be conscripted into the army. And then God help us all. For the moment, however, the man is a helpless fool. If we leave him he will die, and who knows what will happen to the rest of them, including the woman.

The harbour quay and the beach below were filled now with soldiers, RAF ground crew by the dozen and all manner of civilians, all trying to find a ship or any other means of getting away from the Germans.

A New Zealand sergeant saw Lamb and spotted his pips. ‘You in charge, sir?’

‘No. Not really, Sarnt. Just trying to get my men away.’

‘Well, you’d better look sharp about it, sir. They’re only up the road. At Acharnes, someone said. The Jerries, that is. We’ve left the 4th Hussars as a rearguard and then they’ll just have to fend for themselves. Poor bloody cavalry. It’s another bloody balls-up.’

Lamb nodded. ‘Yes, Sarn’t. I think you may be right. Have you got a plan?’

‘We found some taxis parked up in the main square. A whole bloody fleet of them. I’d help you if we could, but they’re full already. I’ve got about 100 men to get away myself. You’re welcome to try your luck with our column, though, sir, if you’ve got your own transport. The harbour at Piraeus is fucked, though. Blown to shit. We’re off east to see if we can’t find a ship at Rafina. You might do the same, mate.’

Lamb bristled. ‘Thank you, Sarnt. I’ll take your advice. Good luck.’

‘Good luck, sir.’

On the corner of University Street a section of New Zealand infantrymen were setting up a machine-gun post, sandbagging it with sacks taken from the wall of a nearby café. Outside the same café several Greeks sat and watched the men at work, quietly drinking their coffee, saying nothing.

He turned to the men and then glimpsed the English beyond. They had stopped arguing now but were still talking. It was just too bad. He was an officer and, no matter what his personal feelings might be towards these misfits, his duty was to get his men to safety as soon as he could and back into action. As he was looking at the group a British major walked up to them, heading for the Hartleys. He was intercepted by Comberwell, who began to speak to him and pointed towards Lamb. The officer nodded and then spoke with Mrs Hartley. Then he looked across to Lamb and walked over.

‘Captain Lamb? Guy Whittaker, RHA. Look, I’ve a bit of a favour to ask you. Those people over there.’ He pointed to the British party.

‘Sir?’

‘You know who they are?’

‘Sir.’

‘Well, we really have to get them away. I know it may seem strange but Hartley’s quite a senior chap, actually. Friend of the GOC. At least their wives are buddies. The other chap I’m not concerned about, but he seems to have attached himself to them. Can you manage it?’

‘Is that an order, sir?’

The man looked at him, ‘Yes, you’d better take it as one. Don’t want to rattle the GOC, do we?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Fine, that’s settled then. Good luck.’

He walked back to the civilians and as he spoke to Miranda Hartley Comberwell turned to give Lamb a smile. Lamb strolled across to him, biting his lip.

‘Change of plan. I’ve been given orders to get you away. But I’m afraid you’ll have to look sharpish if you’re going to come with us.’

Comberwell smiled at him. ‘I say, that’s awfully decent of you. Righto. I’ll just find my kit.’

Lamb bristled. He seemed almost a caricature of an Englishman.

Hartley, the famous writer whose work he had never read, turned to Lamb. ‘It is frightfully decent of you. Let me buy you a drink. There’s a bar across the road. They’re bound to have some champagne. The good stuff.’

‘With respect, Mr Hartley, I don’t think this is quite the time. But that is very kind. Let’s postpone it till we’re all safe in Alex, shall we?’

‘Quite. Yes, of course, quite right. Should never have suggested it. Bad idea. Must get on and get your men away. Can’t keep the Jackals waiting. You know when I join up, which won’t be before long, I’m sure, I’ve half a mind to put in for a commission with your mob. Will you put in a word for me?’

Lamb looked at him. Could the man really be serious? Lamb wondered what the recruiting officer would say, and the adjutant for that matter. And then he realised that it was true, that before long men like Hartley, along with the bumptious idiot Comberwell, might be the only officers they had. ‘Yes, of course I will. Good show. I’m sure there’ll be no problem.’

Hartley turned to his wife. ‘Miranda, the captain here says he can get me a commission in the Jackals. Isn’t that splendid?’

Lamb muttered. ‘I didn’t actually say that I could do that. I will put a word in, of course.’

‘That would be so kind, Captain. I really don’t want Julian to fight, but if he must then … Well, he’s always wanted to be a soldier. Like Dr Johnson.’

They smiled at each other and Lamb began to wonder whether he might not have been rash in suggesting he might help them to get away. There was a respectful cough behind him and Lamb turned to see a corporal. Lamb returned the salute and, looking for his buttons, saw that he belonged to the Grenadier Guards, which was strange, as, to the best of his knowledge, there were no Guards units in Greece.

‘Captain Lamb, sir?’

‘Corporal.’

‘I’ve been sent to fetch you, sir. A matter of urgency. Would you come with me, sir?’

‘Where to, Corporal? On whose orders?’

‘My commanding officer, sir. It’s not far.’

Lamb called across to Charles Eadie. ‘Lieutenant, take command. I shan’t be long.’

He followed the corporal across the street and down an alleyway. ‘I hope this is not going to take long, Corporal. You do know that Jerry’s about to pay us a visit.’

‘Not long, sir, no.’

They kept walking at a brisk pace and eventually Lamb found himself in a back street that might have come from any eastern town. It reminded him of his one never-to-be-repeated visit to the Birkah in Cairo, with washing strung across the road and scantily clad women hanging out of the windows, touting for custom.

‘Where the hell have you brought me, Corporal? If this is some sort of practical joke I’ll have you …’

‘No joke, sir. Sorry, sir.’ The corporal pushed open a door. ‘The colonel’s just in here, sir.’

Glancing at the man, Lamb entered and followed the Guardsman into a house and down a narrow passageway. It was stiflingly hot, dimly lit by one bare light bulb and smelt of incense and spices, masking an underlying stench of disinfectant. They turned to the right and then left and at last the corporal pushed open another door. ‘Here we are, sir.’

Lamb walked in, past the corporal’s arm, and saw an officer sitting at a desk before him. Another soldier, a towering Grenadier warrant officer, was standing against one wall. The man looked up and Lamb recognised him instantly.

‘Hello, Peter. Do sit down. WO Pullen, would you leave us for a moment?’

The Guardsman nodded, ‘Sir,’ and walked smartly out of the room, closing the door behind him. Lamb seated himself on a small upright chair in front of the desk and looked at the man who had summoned him to this unlikely office.

He was a colonel, and even though he was sitting down it was obvious that he was a tall man, lean and fit with it. He smiled at Lamb and Lamb wanted to return the smile, but instead he frowned. For this was the man who had seen to his quick promotion, and it had been the colonel too who had suggested to Lamb that he might join that new elite unit. Lamb knew as soon as he saw him that an encounter with Colonel ‘R’ could only mean trouble. Particularly when he smiled.

The colonel spoke. ‘How wonderful to see you, Peter. I could hardly believe it when they told me you were in Athens. What a stroke of luck. About all we’ve had so far in this damned campaign.’

‘Yes, sir. It has been rather rough.’

‘Well, it’s going to get rougher. For all of us. Now you’re probably wondering why I called you here. And you’re probably thinking that I’ve hatched another mad plan.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The colonel smiled again. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re absolutely right. Don’t worry. It’s nothing to do with Section D, and I don’t want you to join the commandos. Those are purely voluntary. You won’t need to leave your men. In fact they’re integral to the whole scheme.’

‘Sir, are you quite certain that you’ve got the right man?’

‘Absolutely. As I said, I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were here. Last-minute miracle. I was beginning to despair.’

‘Can I ask how exactly you did hear, sir?’

‘No. Not really. Let’s just say that someone whom you know, knows who you are. That is to say they knew that you were here. And they told me, and as soon as I heard that I had you brought here. That any clearer?’

‘Not really, sir. No.’

‘Well, that’s it. The walls have ears, you know, Peter. Can’t be too careful.’

‘Evidently not.’

It was instantly apparent to him that the colonel’s spy, whoever he or she was, had to be one of the British party. Either that or one of his own men, or most unlikely of all a Kiwi or an Aussie. He called to mind the civilians and had begun to wonder which one it could be before he realised that the colonel was speaking.

‘Now come on, Peter. There’s no need to be like that. This is hardly the man I know. The hero of St Valéry.’

‘Well, perhaps I’ve changed then, sir. Greece is a shambles.’

The colonel nodded. ‘Yes. I couldn’t agree more. And to stop it becoming an utter farce is the reason you’re here. What do you know about the Greek monarchy?’

‘Not much, sir. I know they’ve got a King at least and that he may be somehow related to Queen Victoria. And that he was deposed and then put back on the throne. That’s about it.’

‘That’ll do. For starters. They do have a King. King George II. And yes, you’re right, he was deposed and reinstated. And where do you suppose he is now?’

‘Probably en route to somewhere a long way away from here. We saw Prince Peter driving for the coast.’

‘Did you now? That’s the King’s cousin. Important chappie. In the Greek army. Liaison with us. Good sort. And yes, right again. The King is getting away. In fact …’ He looked at his watch. ‘By my reckoning he should be making landfall in Crete just about now.’

‘Crete, sir?’

‘Yes, island to the south of us.’

Lamb nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Delightful place. Stayed there myself once. Full of old buildings and ruins. Very important. Well, that’s where the King has gone to get away from Jerry. And well he might.’

‘Sir?’

‘Herr Hitler has seen fit to declare King George an enemy of the Greek people. Damned impertinence. An enemy of his own people! That little man has no concept of manners. Well, now. What I want you to do is to go to Crete and keep an eye on him.’

‘Keep an eye on him, sir?’

‘Yes. Just that. Well, a little more. Forget about going to Alex. Get yourself and your men off to Crete. Find the King as soon as you can. Don’t let him know what you’re there for until you’re needed. That’ll be soon enough. We want to try to keep the thing as hush-hush as we can. In fact you may not even have to meet him. Just keep yourself aware of where he is, and if the Germans invade the island be prepared to help with his evacuation. Is that clear?’

Lamb shook his head. ‘Quite clear, sir. You want me to babysit the King of Greece and if the Germans come for him help him escape to Egypt.’

‘Precisely. Although I wouldn’t say “babysit” was quite the right expression. “Unofficial bodyguard” is how I would put it.’

‘Without his knowing?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘You can’t.’ The colonel had stopped smiling now. ‘Try it and I’ll see to it that you lose your captaincy.’

‘Can you tell me why the King is so vitally important? Greece itself I think I can see. It’s part of Mr Churchill’s grand plan for a southern alliance against the Axis. But the King? Wouldn’t I be better off fighting?’

‘King George is a figurehead. Whatever Hitler might say, many of his people love their King. It’s equally obvious that the Führer loathes him. He’s 40, almost 41, and pretty fit. He trained with the Prussian army before the last war. His great grandmother was Queen Victoria and our own King calls him “cousin”. George and his father the King were exiled in 1917 and replaced by his brother Alexander and a republican government. But Alexander died, and by 1920 George and his old man were back by common vote. His father was deposed after being defeated by Turkey, and George was given the throne. Four years later he was out, and in 1932 settled in London at Brown’s Hotel. He divorced his wife in 1935 and the following year was back on the throne. There are no children. So. There you have it. There’s your charge, Peter.’

Lamb stared at him. He realised that this was a defining moment. His instinct was to say no and to suffer the consequences. He had doubted the integrity of the Greek campaign since the outset, and now this. This was politics. Hitler against Churchill. A spite match, with the King as pawn. The colonel watched him carefully. Gauged his unease.

‘Peter. Remember. When all this is over, when we’ve won the war, you’ll need people who can help. You’re a young man. Your whole future’s ahead of you. You’ll have done something good in the war, have already, but what will you do in the peace? I can help. I’m your guarantee of a future, Peter. You can still be someone when the lights go on again. Believe me, there will still be someone to fight, and I’ll be leading that crusade too. If that’s what you want then I’ll be right behind you. But only if you play along now. You know what the alternative means.’

Lamb thought for a moment. ‘All right. I’ll be your babysitter, sir. I’ll look after your King and I’ll do my best to get him out if the Jerries attack. Do you suppose they will?’

‘Yes, to be frank. But we don’t know for certain and we don’t know when. Good, I’m glad that’s settled. Now you had better go back and find your men before the Jerries get here. Pullen.’

The WO came through the door. ‘We’re pulling out of this dive. Escort Captain Lamb back to the town and let’s get ourselves off, shall we? Before Jerry walks in.’

Back in the square Lamb found the men milling around the tailgates of the trucks. Bennett stubbed out a cigarette. ‘Blimey, sir. You all right? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘Yes, you’re not far wrong, Sarnt-Major. Come on, we need to get a move on. Get the civilians on first.’

The Hartleys, Comberwell and Papandreou and their retainers piled into the back of one of the trucks, and Lamb’s men followed suit. Looking at them again he wondered which of them had told the colonel of his presence and how.

Lamb opened the passenger door of the lead truck and climbed in. They started up and the little convoy began to clatter and jolt down the road through the city and out eastwards towards Rafina. Despite the streams of fugitives, it didn’t take them long.

Piraeus might well have been, as the Aussie sergeant had told him, ‘fucked up’, but as far as Lamb could see the little port of Rafina was certainly in a mess as well. The little harbour, normally more used to fishing boats, was now full of ships of all sorts, some of them half submerged, having been hit by the Luftwaffe. The water, usually clear blue, had turned a filthy black with the floating, charred wood from destroyed vessels, and everywhere, it seemed to Lamb, masts and funnels of ships poked through the oily scum of the surface. The cloying stench of oil and burnt wood was everywhere.

On shore most of the houses were in ruins, their rubble giving many of them the appearance of ancient monuments.

Valentine saw Lamb gazing at them. ‘I think I can guess your thoughts, sir.’

‘Really, Valentine, surprise me.’

‘You’re wondering whether this place will end up looking like the rest of ancient Greece. Whether it will sink back into antiquity where it lay for 2,000 years after the Peloponnesian wars, before we rediscovered it. That’s what war does, sir, isn’t it? Destroys civilisations.’

Lamb looked at him. ‘You’re right, actually. That was what I was thinking. But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it, Valentine? To stop this bloody war. To stop a German madman from destroying our own civilisation.’ He looked again at the shattered ships and houses. ‘Come on, let’s get going. Jerry can’t be far behind.’

A number of caiques, fragile-looking Greek fishing vessels with a sail and a small motor, were lying at anchor in the harbour. Most appeared to have been requisitioned by the army, and men and stores were being loaded aboard. One, though, no less ramshackle than the rest but marginally more seaworthy, caught Lamb’s eye. It bore the name Andromeda, which had been painted with some care by its owner on to a wooden sign on its bows along with a large all-seeing eye which gave it the appearance of a war galley. On its fore-deck he could see several khaki-clad figures tinkering with a deck-mounted Lewis gun – two British officers in shirt sleeves, a corporal and a handful of men. If that was the total on board then she would manage a few more bodies, he reckoned. Lamb walked over and stepped on to the deck. He walked over to the senior officer, a thin young captain with slicked-back dark hair. Lamb introduced himself.