Jackals’ Revenge

A tug drew alongside them and a naval officer yelled at them through a megaphone. ‘Ahoy. See that caique, tied up to the quay? Moor alongside her and disembark across her. Is that clear?’

Hallam called back. ‘Quite clear, thank you.’

Their boat drew up alongside the caique and, once the crew had fastened the two together with ropes, they began to move across. Lamb turned to the men on deck. ‘Sarnt Mays, take your section off first and form a guard. Civilians off next, and then the rest of you, by section.’

Mays led his men off and over the floating dock. Once ashore, they fanned out either side of the gangway. Lamb watched Miranda Hartley and the others step gingerly from their boat on to the caique and walk across its rocking deck before going down the gangway. They stepped ashore as if they were leaving a P&O cruise liner. He half expected to see her turn to Hallam and shake his hand to thank him as she might the liner’s captain. Then, in as orderly a manner as possible, the rest of them followed.

There was a sudden wailing. Air-raid sirens. Lamb craned his neck and scanned the skies but saw nothing. Nevertheless the ack-ack guns on shore in their little sandbagged half-moons opened fire. Mays’ section ducked instinctively and the civilians looked up to see the danger but to his surprise none of the crowd on shore seemed very concerned and the khaki figures carried on about their business. The sirens stopped as abruptly as they had begun and the guns ceased a few seconds later. More wasted ammunition, thought Lamb. And why? Because, he guessed, some jittery young artillery spotter in a slit-trench on a hill outside the town had thought he had seen a Jerry plane. It had probably been a seagull.

Lamb found Hallam by the mooring. ‘Thank you. You got us all here safely.’

‘No thanks to me. I lost the convoy, didn’t I?’

‘Probably sailed straight on to Alexandria. But it was your work that got us here.’

‘Perhaps, but it was thanks to your sergeant that we weren’t shot to pieces. He’s an extraordinary man, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he is. That’s one word for it. But anyway, thank you. What will you do now?’

‘Try to find a tank if I can. I reckon a few of our mob will be here already. I’m sure to find them. They’re not very good at keeping out of mischief, especially in a place like this.’

Lamb walked down the gangway and no sooner had his feet touched the stone of the quayside than he heard a voice shouting. He looked around.

A neatly turned out British staff officer in a peaked cap liberally adorned with brass was addressing Mays’ section. ‘Pile any heavy weapons over there, you men. Everything but rifles and side arms. Over there. We’re going to pool all the heavy weapons. Orders from the GOC.’

Bennett looked at Lamb and raised an eyebrow before taking him aside and speaking to him quietly.

‘Things must be bad, sir. But I’ll be damned if I’m giving up the Lewis guns. I thought this might happen, sir. Took the precaution of having them dismantled. We’ve got a piece each, all us NCOs. We took the ones from the boat too, sir. Course we’ll have to leave the mortars. Can’t do much with them.’

‘Well done, Sarnt-Major. Quite right. Important to keep something with us. Hand them in now and we’ll never see them again. Whose brilliant idea was this, I wonder? No one will notice. Stubbs will be furious about his precious mortars, though.’

The last men off were unloading what few pieces of everyday kit they had managed to bring away from the mainland, which consisted mainly of blankets and rations, and a box of company documents including maps and a copy of King’s Regulations, along with the civilians’ travelling cases.

The crowd of Cretans that had gathered on the quayside moved towards them now and Lamb saw they were holding objects in their hands. One of the women, an elderly matron in a black dress and shirt, caught his arm and, saying something in a guttural Greek dialect he had never before encountered, smiled at him toothlessly as she pressed something into his palm. Lamb looked down and saw it was an orange. He saw other girls and women giving his men and others newly arrived on the quayside ceramic bowls of milky-white ice cream and spoons with which to eat it. At first the men just stared at them in disbelief, but it did not take long for them to accept the gifts. Lamb said thank you to the old woman, who nodded before turning and walking back to her house, just as if this was something she did every day.

Miranda Hartley came up to him. ‘Ice cream and fruit. They seem very pleased to see you, Captain.’ She spotted the orange in his hand. ‘I say, do you want your orange?’

‘No, you have it, please.’

Bennett found him as he handed it to her. He gestured to the men who were greedily eating the ice cream. ‘Sir, is this all right by you?’

Lamb smiled. ‘Fine, Sergeant. Of course. For all we know the men might not see oranges or ice cream again for a very long time. Let them take it if they want.’

Mrs Hartley, he saw, was already tucking into his own orange and at least half of him wished he hadn’t given it to her. Valentine saw him. ‘It’s all right, sir. I’ve got two. Have one of mine.’

Lamb took the orange and, peeling it quickly, began to bite into the juicy flesh and pith, savouring it as he had enjoyed no orange before.

The staff officer, a major, walked over to Lamb. He was holding a large pad and a pencil. ‘And who are you, Captain? Where have you come from?’

Lamb swallowed hard on a piece of orange and tucked the rest behind his back. ‘Lamb, sir. Captain Peter Lamb. A Company, North Kents. We’ve come from Athens, sir.’

‘North Kents.’ He jotted it down on his pad. ‘From Athens. Yes, you will have done. Well done, Captain. Well, now you’re in Creforce holding Area A. Take your men off up that road there. How many are you?’

‘Forty men, sir. We’ve lost a few. We fought through Greece.’

The major ignored the last comment and pointed to the east. ‘Take yourselves off up that road there and make camp in one of the olive groves. If you can find one, that is. We’ve got thousands of chaps like you. Odds and ends. Don’t worry. We’ll decide what to do with you and where to send you soon enough. We’re building a transit camp up at Perivolia. But you know what the army’s like, Captain. For the moment I should just make camp. And do keep your men in control, Captain, if you can. There are some men out there – Australians and New Zealanders mostly – wandering through the vineyards and taking the law into their own hands. It’s a nightmare, I can tell you. And it makes my job no easier.’

‘We have some civilians with us, sir. British. A woman and three men.’ He indicated Miranda Hartley. ‘Where are they to go?’

‘They’ll have to fend for themselves, I’m afraid, British or not. Too many civilians here too now, and no legation. Nothing. Can’t help everyone, you know. Enough to sort out with you lot. Just find yourselves an olive grove and await further orders. I’m off to the GOC. More bloody paperwork, I expect.’

And with that he was gone. Lamb stared after the man as he rounded on some other hapless new arrivals. He began again on the orange, and as he chewed Miranda Hartley came over. ‘I say. What luck. A friend of Mr Papandreou’s says we can stay with him. In his villa. Isn’t that nice? Where are you staying?’

‘To be honest, I was just wondering the same thing myself.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll find some lovely house somewhere. You officers always land on your feet.’

There was a loud and insistent ‘parp’ from a car horn. ‘That’ll be for me, I expect. Better go. Mustn’t keep them waiting. See you soon, I hope, Captain. And thank you for all your help.’

She shook his hand and then ran off towards where Hartley and the others were waiting in two long, elegant, highly polished convertibles. Watching her go, Lamb smiled and summed up their current situation to himself.

They were standing on a narrow harbour-front street of Italianate villas with neat, walled gardens of palm and lemon trees. Two cafés sat directly opposite each other on a corner, their gaudy awnings draped over rows of empty chairs. The larger of the two bore a sign: ‘Plaza Bar Tourist Hotel’. Lamb pointed to it. ‘Sarnt-Major. Ten minutes’ rest. Sit the men down over there.’

‘All right you lot. Ten minutes. Savvy?’

As the men fell out and rested on chairs which until only recently had been occupied by holidaymakers, Lamb turned. ‘Valentine, you seem well versed in the area. Tell me exactly where we are.’

‘Place called Canea, sir. It’s an old Venetian trading port. Popular with the tourist trade. Very picturesque.’

‘So I see. Where’s Mr Wentworth?’

‘Over there, sir. Eating an ice cream.’

Lamb walked across to the lieutenant. ‘Wentworth, are we all present and accounted for?’

Wentworth, who was licking slowly at a spoonful of ice cream, straightened up. ‘I think so, sir.’

Lamb smirked. ‘Think so is not quite what I asked, Lieutenant. What are our numbers?’

‘Thirty-eight, sir. But we have five walking wounded and six with dysentery.’

‘Right. So effective strength of twenty-seven.’

‘Sir.’

His company had become a platoon. They were low on rations, had ragged uniforms and few of them were properly armed.

‘Weapons?’

‘We’re missing twelve rifles. But we do still have the Brens and the two Lewis guns from the boat.’

He looked at his men. Most, like him, had not shaved for more than a week and the tired, drawn faces and sunken eyes told their own tale of what they had witnessed. As if to emphasise their state, at that moment around the corner came a platoon of British soldiers. They were marching in time, in a column of twos, with a sergeant-major at their head and to the right. As they passed several of Lamb’s men gave them a wolf-whistle but the soldiers did not even look towards them. Lamb searched their uniforms for insignia.

Fred Smart was standing beside him. ‘Blimey, sir. Who the hell’s that lot? The Coldstream Guards?’

‘No, Smart. I would hazard a guess that that’s the Welch Regiment. They’re the official Crete garrison. Well, part of it at least. They weren’t in Greece.’

‘I should coco. Sorry, sir.’

They might look, he thought, as if they had just come off parade at Horse Guards, but Lamb was grateful for their presence and their appearance. It brought him back to order. And despite the wolf-whistles he knew it was just what was needed to restore his men’s confidence in the army. And they desperately needed that now.

Having reached the quayside, the newcomers stopped and divided into three sections, one of which moved across to Lamb. Their sergeant approached him.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you would be new arrivals, would you?’ He spoke with a just discernible Welsh accent.

‘Yes, Sarnt. Just got here.’

‘Did you see the major, sir?’

‘Yes, thank you, Sarnt. I saw the major.’

‘Well, sir, he will have told you, I’m guessing, to go up that road there to the olive groves. Didn’t he? It’s a good mile, sir.’

Lamb smiled. He knew that ‘a good mile’ meant an ‘army mile’, and an army mile meant any distance you wanted it to mean.

The man continued. ‘You’ll find a lovely field kitchen, sir, up there. It’s not that far. Each of your men will get a nice mug of tea, some bread and cheese, an orange, some chocolate and some fags. You too, if you want them, sir. The assembly points and your bivvy area will be about seven miles farther on, isn’t it.’

Lamb wondered if the sergeant meant seven ‘good miles’.

‘Thank you, Sarnt. That’s very clear. We’ll set out in five minutes. I’m just letting the men have a rest. We’ve had a bit of a journey.’

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