SBS, page 11
Unsurprisingly, it took all the men, Woods and Hunter included, a good hour and a half to get everything squared away. The marines had been working similarly hard further along the quay and had just finished.
Hunter turned to Russell. The ex-barman always seemed happy to act as mess steward, come cook.
‘Squirrel, see if you can find everyone some scran. Eggs, bacon, that sort of stuff. We’ll need something inside us before the off.’
‘On it, boss.’
Woods was looking over the vessel. ‘She’s not in bad shape. She should get us there.’
Hunter smiled. ‘And back, I hope.’
It took Russell just half an hour to produce a stack of egg and bacon rolls for all of them, and he was careful not to forget the ship’s captain and the three crewmen.
*
The big, newly fitted, 90 horsepower Leyland engine started up and Woods noticed that it was significantly quieter than any of the usual, run-of-the-mill Greek fishing boats on which he had travelled, which used old Bolinder diesel engines. It had clearly been changed to at least allow them some form of surprise. That would have been Seligman’s doing. Perhaps too, he supposed, it might be faster. Using the sails was effective, and of course they were silent. But speed was the thing and the engine would be the powerhouse of the boat. That would be helpful, especially should they ever be attempting to outrun an enemy torpedo boat.
*
Once they were at sea Woods called the men together. They sat wherever they could on the deck, some with their thin backsides hanging off the side rails, over the sea. Woods began, ‘Well, I dare say you’ve all been speculating as to where we’re headed, so I think I had better put you out of your misery.’ Of course, he knew that most of them had already worked out their destination and he didn’t have to guess what their reaction might be when it was confirmed.
Nevertheless, he paused for effect. ‘Gentlemen, we’re going to Crete.’
An audible groan rippled around the assembled other ranks. Someone said, ‘Not again.’
Woods heard someone else mutter, ‘Knew it. I bleedin’ well knew it.’
Another joker, Private White, quipped, ‘Back again, sir. Oh what luck.’
Woods smiled. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, Chalky, here you go again. Of course some of you haven’t yet had a chance to sample the delights of this fine island. Others have and you know all too well what happened here. But this time we’re going to do some real damage. In fact Captain Wilson and his matelots are going to do so much damage here that the Jerries won’t be able to use a single square foot of their airfields. And that’s why it’s so vital.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Because, Russell, our little raid is just the start of something much bigger. The invasion of North Africa.’
Someone wolf-whistled.
‘Thank you. Yes indeed you might whistle, Knox. The invasion of North Africa. And you all know what that means. What comes next? The invasion of Sicily, Italy, and then the big push north. The liberation of Europe.’
There was more chattering. Woods knew when to put an end to it.
‘Alright, pipe down. That’s enough. So that’s the big plan. Now you know the reasons behind this little jaunt. But our job is different. As you might have guessed, you’ve all been selected because of your unusual, or should I say your unique abilities.’
A ripple of laughter echoed round the deck. Someone said, ‘What’s yours then, sir?’
‘Very funny. I’ll stand any man a beer, who can come up with the best answer. As I was saying, you’ve all been chosen for your unique skills. You know the basic idea behind what we do. It’s our job to get in there when the marines do their job and zero in on any intel that might prove useful. What we’re after is something really important. When we pulled out of Crete last May we left something behind.’
Someone muttered, just loud enough to be heard, ‘Too bloody right we did. Two thousand men dead and 12,000 POWs.’
‘Yes, Phelps, that’s true and some of you saw it happen. But look at it from a positive perspective. We did actually manage to get 12,000 off.’
He paused, reflecting for a moment. ‘Yes. Anyway, now we’re back and we’ve got a job to do. And… as I was saying, when we pulled out last year we unfortunately left an important piece of intelligence. According to our chaps on the island and the spooks back home it looks as if the Germans might not have found it. That’s what we’ve got to find and bring away.’
A voice spoke up: ‘May I ask what it is, sir? This important piece of intel?’
‘You may, Russell. And I’ll tell you. It’s a complete summary of our plans for the liberation of Europe. What our basic plan is. Where we attack in Tunisia and Algeria, who and what with and where next we hit the Nazis, once we’ve taken the godforsaken place.’
‘Blimey. How the bloody hell did we manage to leave that behind?’
‘All too easily, I suspect, in the chaos that happened back then. I suppose those in charge just forgot about it.’
‘Well, they forgot about everything else, didn’t they?’
‘Alright, Fletcher. Whatever happened and however it happened is not really important to us. What is important is to find this bloody thing before the enemy does.’
‘How do we know what we’re looking for, sir? If we find it?’
‘Yes, I was coming to that. It’s a sheaf of papers. Typical War Office style. Brown paper, rubber stamps, that sort of thing. The codename is Gymnast. Got that?’
They murmured their assent. ‘And anything that’s marked BIGOT. Alright?’
Russell spoke. ‘Why bigot, sir?’
‘It’s one of Winnie’s acronyms, Russell. British Invasion of German Occupied Territory.’
‘Do we know where it might be, sir?’
‘Yes. Fortunately, we do have a few clues. There are basically three places where it might have been hidden, well, “filed”. Two of them on Heraklion airfield. We’re going to split into two or three groups and try all of them. Now there is one other vitally important point. I have just told you all about the contents of the intel; largely as to identify it you might necessarily need to know what it contains. You all now know that we intend to attack up through Sicily and Italy. What I mean to say is that we don’t intend to launch the second front up through Greece. It is of absolute importance that you should keep that knowledge to yourself. Don’t tell your wives or your children. Don’t tell your sweethearts or mistresses. Don’t tell the other chaps on Wilson’s boat and above all, when you get back to Cairo don’t tell anyone at all. Not even that old tart in the bloody Burqua, Fletcher. Got that?’
The men nodded and grunted their assent.
‘But as far as you’re all concerned, what matters is what we do in the next few days on the island. Got it?’
*
The voyage, Gorringe had happily confirmed, was longer than usual for the caique. It was going to take them three days.
Woods and Hunter had known that. But the others had not and some of them, Hunter knew, were not used to a prolonged sea voyage. But they were tough enough. Patient enough. The trouble was that time out of action was time to think and too much thinking, thought Hunter, never did any soldier any good.
The other boat, containing Wilson and his marines, had parted company with them when they were five hours out of Alexandria. They were going to land in a different part of the Cretan coast. This had been planned from the start. Not only would it make the initial landing party smaller, but it would ultimately split German attention and give each team a better chance of survival.
The first day was quiet enough and not marked with any incident. They had struck out north-west from Alexandria, directly towards Crete, Captain Gorringe’s plan being to get them from point A to point B as fast as possible. The Royal Navy proudly maintained its presence in the Med and, during the day at least, German vessels feared being spotted by enemies that might blow them out of the water. But that was not to say that there was no German presence and the crew were on constant alert.
At one point they spotted another large caique-like vessel in the distance and binoculars revealed that it was flying a German naval ensign. But it showed no interest in them, clearly having bigger fish to fry, or perhaps being keen to avoid an encounter with the Royal Navy.
The crew had modified their dress on leaving port, appearing now, complete with their beards and moustaches, more like the crew of a Greek fishing caique. The guns too had been cleverly camouflaged with canvas covers on to which had been sewn fishing nets, but which could be stripped away at a moment’s notice.
The greatest immediate threat came from Rosetta being spotted from the air by one of the German and Italian planes that scoured the Aegean and the eastern Mediterranean. It was therefore vital that Hunter’s men should remain below decks for most of the day. Naturally, they took it in turns to emerge for a breath of fresh air and to stretch their limbs. But only two by two. A few items of civilian dress were kept by the cabin door for the purpose, just in case they should encounter an enemy plane or boat while on deck.
The confinement below wasn’t ideal for two of the men. White and Miller were both prone to seasickness and this voyage was no exception. The Libyan Sea might have been as calm as a millpond thus far, but the big, shovel-handed Guardsman and the ex-policeman had been suffering badly. Every time the two big men came on deck there was only one thing either of them wanted to do and Hunter watched Miller now, hanging over the side, and felt for his misery.
Below decks, with the portholes kept open, most of the men passed the time in sleeping, reading or playing cards. One of them, Bill Duffy, the Cambridge chemist turned demolitionist, was content to spend hours drawing portraits of his fellow raiders. These were not the sort of amusing, sometimes ribald, caricatures by talented amateur army artists that enlivened the walls of so many officers’ and sergeants messes, but something rather more original. Duffy’s small, exquisite pencil drawings were nothing less than beautiful. With a single line he had the ability to capture the very essence of a face. And the men were more than happy to pose for him. It gave a purpose to their sitting still, and was made all the more worthwhile by the anticipation of the outcome. He had not as yet drawn either Hunter or Woods, though both men were looking forward to being asked.
Hunter stood on deck during his allotted rest time, staring out to sea. The Aegean was a peerless lake of azure that met the cerulean of the cloudless sky at a softly watery horizon of grey, which was all that now remained in view of the coast of Egypt. The crew were mostly silent as they went about their work and Captain Gorringe stood at the wheel, a commanding presence, in touch with his craft and the charmed world it inhabited. A nautical chart was always at his hand, held down upon a bleached wooden deck table by an old and corroded brass compass.
The abiding noise, above the lapping of the water as it was cut by the prow, was the gentle whine of the newly installed diesel engine.
One of the men, Fletcher, the lothario, lay elongated on the foredeck, stripped to the waist, wearing a pair of American-issue sunglasses. It was an idyllic scene, sybaritic almost, and – had he not been aware of the armoury stored below or the nature of their mission – Hunter would have, for a moment, probably forgotten about the war.
As it was, he slipped carelessly back into the tales of his boyhood. To tales of Jason and Ulysses, of Theseus and Perseus. Myths of heroic derring-do battling hideous, hydra-headed monsters. Tales that had become encapsulated in a print of Ulysses mocking Polyphemus the Cyclops, after a painting by Turner, which had entranced his youthful imagination from the moment that his father had hung it in the nursery. The image lived in his mind. The figure of the great classical hero, standing triumphant on the deck of his ship, cloaked and helmeted beneath a crimson banner, raising his arm in victory, brandishing the flaming torch with which he has just blinded the Cyclops as his loyal companions cheer him on.
Hunter still carried with him, as he had always done these last eight years, a battered and well-read copy of Rouse’s Gods, Heroes and Men of Ancient Greece that he had plucked from the school library before he had left that sad old place forever, at the age of seventeen, never to return.
That was how he saw himself and his men now. As adventurers, battling against evil demigods, searching for a talisman, a modern-day golden fleece.
*
On the second day, at around two o’clock in the afternoon, when White and Woods were up on deck, the caique was buzzed by a low-flying German spotter plane. Gorringe yelled down into the cabin.
‘Hun plane coming in. Don’t panic, it’s just a spotter. But make sure you all keep your heads down.’
The little plane, a Fieseler Storch, probably based on Crete, circled the caique several times and the crew waved enthusiastically at its pilot, impressively embracing their characters of Greek fishermen. After a few minutes he flew off, although it was, of course, impossible to know whether or not he had seen through their disguise.
From now on, though, Woods felt exposed and was acutely aware that at any moment sudden and unseen death might return from the air and obliterate his little command. He shivered at the thought and at how such a simple, single action could, in a split second, cause so much destruction. For Woods was not quite the man he appeared. He had carefully shaped a veneer of cold distance and efficiency over the past three years. He knew that if it crumbled so too would he. Everything he had seen since France in 1940 had taken its toll. The carnage of the Blitzkrieg, French civilians lying dead on the roads of Normandy. The hopelessness of St Valery and his incredible luck in getting away when so many others hadn’t. And then Crete, where it all seemed to happen again. Another shambles, another miraculous escape. Just how many lives did he have left, he wondered?
Woods looked down at his hands and saw his right forefinger and index finger twitching. It happened from time to time. When he overthought situations. As he was doing now. He tried to snap out of it. Think of something else. The girl in Cairo. Lara. But he wondered if he was capable of affection any more. Had he lost everything he had once had?
His fingers were still twitching. He looked out to sea, the endless sea, and thought of home. His parents’ home in Norfolk and his father telling him how to tie a knot, or bring a boat into a mooring. And at once, he was calm again.
*
Hunter’s second turn on deck came at sunset and as he watched the sun sink in the sea that evening, it was for him no longer just the last sun he would see setting before they reached the island, it had become the sun of Ulysses, its golden face slashed by ribbons of vibrant pink cloud, and he longed for the moment that he might hold his torch aloft and proclaim his victory.
*
The third and final day brought another, rather more serious challenge. Woods and Fletcher were on deck at the time. They saw it first as a speck on the horizon, far off to the east, coming fast from the Turkish coast. Its speed was what troubled them most and Gorringe was quick to realise what it was. He snapped at them, ‘German MTB. Heading straight for us.’
The crew erupted into action, making sure that the camouflage covers on the guns were still in place. Woods shouted into the cabin, ‘German MTB. Closing fast. We may have to engage. Grab a weapon, make sure it’s loaded and keep your heads down. If they get a shot inside the hold this whole thing could go up.’
There was frantic action below decks and then, silence.
They waited and watched. Gorringe kept his eye on the approaching boat. ‘Still coming. Get ready. I’ll talk to the captain. Don’t worry, my mother’s Greek. We’re going to have to take them out. Agreed, Woods?’
Woods nodded. ‘Agreed. There’s nothing else for it.’
‘My crew will man the cannon and the MGs. There’s no time to get the covers off – we’ll just fire through them. They’re all loaded and ready to go.’
Hunter took charge below decks. ‘Russell, Martin, White, Knox. You stay below at a porthole each. Use the Brens and the MG34. Get them up just out of sight. Miller, Phelps, Duffy. You’re with me. Stay near the door. When it kicks off two of you – Miller and Phelps – get up there with a Sten gun. Duffy, you and me will follow. Understood?’
The men nodded.
‘Right, get to it.’
There was frenzied action and then stillness. The boat could be seen quite clearly now. An officer in German naval uniform holding a megaphone was standing at the prow, flanked by two Kriegsmarine with Schmeissers. As they closed in he put the megaphone to his mouth and spoke in fluent English: ‘Stop your engines. Heave to. We will come aboard.’
Gorringe looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. The German tried again in English and the captain shook his head. Then the German spoke in Greek. Gorringe smiled and nodded at him and cut the engines.
Hunter peered up at the German boat from below decks. He saw one of the new Spandau machine guns, a full ammo belt protruding from its side, mounted on a tripod on the foredeck, a gunner crouching behind it. That made four men. Then another man moved from behind the wheelhouse and Hunter could just make out the muzzle of another Spandau. So there must be six of them. They could handle that. Surprise was the key.
All was silence now, save for the thrum of the MTB’s own engines. The German boat was almost on them now and as she slid alongside, her turbines ran down until they could all hear the sloshing of her wake. One of the German ratings threw out ropes towards Gorringe’s crew, who grabbed at them and attached them to the cleats on Rosetta’s deck.
Christ, thought Hunter, this was going to be a close thing.
He looked down at his men, watching their reactions. Knox looked cool enough, cradling a Bren gun in his arms and next to him Russell did the same. Martin had taken the German machine gun and it lay ready with a belt of ammo already fed in. Just in front of him the two big men, Miller and Duffy, were pressing themselves as hard as they could against the wall, as if they were trying to make themselves somehow smaller. Phelps, opposite him, was staring directly into his face with wide eyes. The man looked terrified and he was sweating. Hunter mouthed at him, ‘Alright, Phelps?’
