SBS, page 13
With news of the signal, the men had begun to come to life, excited that at last they were nearing their objective. Hunter stuck his head below decks. ‘Quieten down, all of you. We don’t want to blow it now. We’ll be ashore soon enough. Phelps, get yourself up here.’
Phelps clambered up through the cabin door. He looked ashen. ‘Sir?’
‘Watch that light, Phelps. They’ll be trying to send the code word in Morse. You know what it is?’
‘Yes, sir. Course I do. Will do.’
Together they stared at the torch flashes and eventually began to discern a rhythm to them. At length, Phelps spoke. He was smiling. ‘Think I’ve got it, sir. Comet. Yes, that’s it. Comet. That’s correct, sir. It’s them.’
Hunter breathed a sigh of relief. There was, he knew, very little chance that the Germans would have intercepted their coded messages relating to the code word to get them into the beach. He found Woods, who was standing next to Gorringe.
‘We’ve got it, sir. It’s Comet. The code word in Morse. It all looks sound.’
‘That’s good. One less worry.’
Gorringe nodded. ‘Now let’s just get ourselves in there.’
Hunter continued to stare towards the flashing light and, as they neared the coast things began to become clearer. He was able to see shapes moving around. Men moving on what looked like a little beach. A strand of sand, overhung and enclosed by cliffs. It would have been invisible from the hills above and unless you were a native of the place it might have gone entirely unnoticed. The men who believed themselves to now be the new masters of Crete could not have guessed of its existence. He tried to make out the number of men on the beach. Three, no there were four of them. More now.
The flashlight was growing larger with every yard they made through the water. Hunter shouted into the cabin, ‘Right. Everyone up on deck. Grab your kit. We’ll get that ashore first, then land the supplies.’ The cabin and deck began to buzz with action as the men stretched their taut, unused bodies and found their equipment. Packs and bags and belts that had lain discarded these past three days were hastily grabbed and strapped on. At the last minute, and with a few exceptions, items of appropriated civilian clothing were exchanged for uniform.
*
When they had got to within forty yards of the shore Gorringe stopped the engines. There was a strange silence in which the loudest sound was the lapping of the water at the keel, interspersed with a hushed muttering from the men, and then Gorringe ordered his crew to lower a boat.
They slowly let down a wooden dinghy into the water and secured it to the caique with one end of a towline. Then one of the crew climbed down into the little boat. Gorringe turned to Woods. ‘Can you spare one of your men, Captain, as an escort and to lay the towline?’
Woods nodded. ‘Who do you suggest, Hunter?’
‘I’ll send Martin. He’s got good sea legs.’
Martin climbed down to join the crewman and slowly the little craft pulled away to the shore, the crewman rowing. Harry Martin sat in the stern, Sten gun slung on his shoulder, playing out a towline.
Within seconds Gorringe had joined the other crew member and was lowering a second boat into the water. It dropped on to the surface and Gorringe motioned to Woods. ‘Captain Woods, we’re ready for the first of your lot. Four men in the boat then we’ll send the kit over and then the last four of you.’
Woods nodded. ‘Hunter, I’ll take the first party. You and the others can get the kit up and send it across. We’ll unload. Then you follow.’
‘Right, sir.’
Woods and Knox directed three of the men – Phelps, Duffy and Martin – into the dinghy and within a few minutes they were on their way to the shore, being pulled across as a shuttle on the tow rope.
Hunter turned to Miller, White and Russell, all of whom were now assembled on deck. ‘Alright, boys, weapons off and let’s get all this kit shifted.’
The usual groans followed, but it didn’t take the four men long to move the boxes up from the hold and on to the deck. By the time they had managed it, the little boat that had taken Woods and the others to the shore had arrived back, empty, at the side of the caique. Gorringe and his remaining crewman helped with lowering the precious cargo into the dinghy. Passing everything to each other down a little rope ladder, they loaded it with the ammunition, explosives, stores and finally the weapons.
One of the most unusual and precious pieces of kit was the miniature camera that had been given to Hunter by Vickery on their final briefing and which had been passed on to Martin, the record keeper and ‘accountant’ of the team. Hunter found this slightly ironic as with Martin a camera really wasn’t necessary. The man was blessed with what was known as a ‘photographic memory’. He could read and file away documents and retrieve them at a moment’s notice from the archive of his mind.
Once it was all aboard the crewman gave a sharp tug on the towline and almost miraculously, the boat began to move away, on its own, towards the beach. They waited and watched. On the shore Hunter could see several distinct groups of men now. Woods and his little party formed clearer outlines as they waited for the dinghy to arrive, while closer to the sea and it seemed standing in it, were other, big shapes. Men heaving and pulling on the towline and with every effort bringing the boat closer to the shore. These would be the andartes, eager to get the job done. Still he kept an eye on the cliff top, his gaze darting hither and thither, in search of the enemy. Expecting the worst.
Gorringe was watching him. ‘Oh yes, they’re out there alright, the bad guys. That’s for sure. But what matters now, Hunter, is that they can’t see us.’
‘Am I that obvious?’
Gorringe nodded. ‘Yes. It’s understandable. And I know I’d rather have my job than yours. You don’t know what you’re headed into. You’ve seen what my life involves. That… what happened today. That was the most excitement I’ve seen in weeks.
‘But you’ll be fine. You’ve got a good team there, Lieutenant. Believe me, and I’ve seen a few. And these are good. And this lot on the island here – the Greeks and the Brits – they’re not too bad either.’
He gestured at the men in the water and on the shore who had now stopped heaving on the line and were dragging the boat on to the shore and unloading the stores and equipment.
‘Well, I know some of them well enough. The andartes. They’re a good bunch. Do anything for you. Almost.’
He smiled. ‘Bandits, cutthroats and gypsies, all of them.’
Hunter laughed. ‘Well in that case they should get on perfectly with my men.’
The boat was coming back now, empty once again. Hunter turned to the captain. ‘Thank you, sir. You’ve been a fine host. Will you be alright here?’
‘As right as I’ll be anywhere. This place is safer than most and with these clever nets of ours making us look like another rock, we can just lie unseen for a few days. No need to go ashore either. We’ve all that we need. We’ll see you when you’re done.’
Hunter nodded and then saw that the boat had returned. He called to the others and, once they had collected all of their individual kit, the three of them climbed down the rope ladder into it and settled themselves on to the seats. Hardly had they sat down, than the dinghy began to move, being pulled, through the sea and through the night, towards the beach. It was a matter of moments before they were there, and their boat was being manhandled from the water by the men he had watched earlier.
It was with no little sense of achievement that Hunter finally stepped ashore and, as he did, he was instantly caught up in the unmistakable, sweet smell of wild thyme. A smell that told him at once, that he could not be anywhere else other than back on the island. The overpowering, wonderfully pungent scent brought back with it memories of another time. Of hard days clambering over the Cretan hills, before the German invasion. Of gloriously sunny afternoons in little villages when, after leading his section on an exercise they would ‘lose themselves’ among the seemingly limitless hospitality (and endless ouzo) of the locals.
But it brought other memories too. Dark memories of chaos and panic and wide-eyed men who had lost all semblance of order and discipline and reason. The planned withdrawal of British and Commonwealth forces that had all too quickly turned in to a rout. He thought of those men now. So many dead. Thousands taken into captivity. Where were they now?
*
Hunter and the other two had hardly stepped ashore before they found themselves enveloped by the Greeks, gabbling away, trying to make themselves heard. They were all clapped on the back and helped up towards the cliffs, as the Greeks grabbed every item that had been landed on the beach and proceeded to drag the cases up a path that snaked up into the hills.
Hunter was aware of a dozen dark faces smiling toothless grins beneath full moustaches and in most cases above even fuller beards. They wore a bewildering variety of clothes, from heavy shirts and sleeveless pullovers to shorts, overalls, hobnailed boots with ancient puttees and black, knee-high riding boots. Most sported some items of military clothing, from army-issue berets and battledress tops, to in one case an utterly incongruous ceremonial busby of black fur. Many had bandoliers of bullets draped over one or both shoulders. The only unifying factor appeared to be their smell. Clearly none of them had washed for days, possibly weeks, and all of them had been eating garlic and drinking retsina. Their stench mixed with that of the island to create a heady fragrance.
Russell turned to him. ‘Bloody hell, sir. What the hell’s this lot?’
‘This lot, Russell, is the flower of Cretan manhood. They’re andartes. And what they lack in poise and refinement they more than make up for in grit, bravery and utter hatred of the Nazis.’
White chimed in: ‘Well, I ain’t never seen the like.’
‘Or smelt it more likely,’ added Miller.
Hunter could see that Woods and his group had had a similar encounter with the locals and that they were now making their way with them up the little path, which led away from the beach.
Hunter was about to head in the same direction when one of the andartes approached him, a heavy-set, dark-skinned man with a huge beard and deep, gloriously untrimmed moustache. On his head he wore a curious turban and over his army-issue bush shirt a goatskin waistcoat. A pair of battledress trousers tucked into black riding boots completed the look, which was set off with two full bandoliers of ammunition, one slung diagonally over each shoulder. Hunter prepared to use his Greek, although he knew from experience on the island that he might not immediately grasp the meaning, such was the Cretan dialect. When the man did speak, however, he was utterly dumbfounded.
‘Quite a tremendous job, wouldn’t you say? Absolutely first class.’
The apparition spoke in a voice that Hunter had not heard for some time. And then in quite different surroundings. The unique, unmistakable patois that was not to be heard from anyone other than an officer in His Majesty’s Foot Guards. He stopped in his tracks. ‘Sorry. I mean. Yes. They’ve done very well, haven’t they. I mean you. Us.’
‘You all have, old chap. Absolutely splendid effort. Never seen anything like it.’
Hunter looked at him. ‘I’m sorry. Do I know you?’
‘No, can’t say I believe we’ve ever met. Unless in White’s. Are you a member?’
‘Er, no, can’t say that I am.’
The man extended a grimy hand. ‘No worry. Ffinch is the name. Mungo Ffinch. Two F’s.’ He laughed. ‘People don’t think it matters. But it bloody does. It’s my name you know. That bloody matters, don’t it? How’d you like it if someone called you… What is your name?’
‘Hunter, Jim Hunter…’ He added, ‘Lieutenant.’
‘Oh yes. Sorry. Captain Ffinch. But call me Mungo. But I mean how would you like it if people started to call you Mister ’Unter? Mm? I can tell you, you’d be bloody furious.’
‘Yes I suppose I would be.’
‘Well there you are. Ffinch. Two F’s.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘You meant to be meeting Paddy?’
‘Yes. That’s the plan.’
‘You’ll have to push inland.’
‘Yes, I thought I might.’
From the crowd of andartes, another bearded figure broke away and grabbed Captain Ffinch by the shoulder, yelling something at him in Greek. Hunter struggled to make it out. Ffinch clapped the other man on the back and turned to Hunter. ‘We should go now. Leave your captain to disguise his boat and get away from him before the Germans suspect anything. Come on. Follow me.’
Together, they followed the andartes on to the path and Hunter saw that they had fastened the heavier cases containing the explosives, ammunition and stores on to the backs of half a dozen pack mules. He looked about and thankfully managed to do a head count of all of his men, along with Woods, who was deep in conversation with one of the andartes, who appeared to be offering to buy or barter his Sten gun from him.
When they had reached a track at the top of the cliff the party split up. Most of the andartes headed off to the east but before they went Hunter watched, with Woods, as Ffinch gave one of them – the leader he presumed – a small, heavy canvas bag, before kissing the man on both cheeks and bidding him farewell. Ffinch came over to them.
‘Gold sovereigns. Just paying them off. They were brought to help unload the kit and just in case there was any trouble. We don’t need them now.’
Hunter supposed that he was right. They were better off without the extra men. He was confident in his team. Well, Phelps had had a slight wobble on the boat, but it had come to nothing. Still, there was something biting away at him. This was his show. His unit. His patrol. His men. But now Woods had command. In fact he thought, Woods need not have come with them at all. Should not. But he was desperate to get in. It irked Hunter somewhat that his command had in a way been usurped, particularly given what had happened with Lara back in Cairo. Despite what Woods had said to him and the show of camaraderie, he still detected a certain tension and he wondered whether Woods’s presence on the raid was also at least in part a gesture that somehow he considered himself in control too of her affections. But he had made nothing of it. Would not. Now there was work to be done.
*
The initial order for Hunter and his patrol was to head inland to RV with Paddy Leigh Fermor. This, Hunter knew, would be the easiest part. Approach marches tended to be boring affairs, even through the heady countryside of Crete.
It had been suggested at one point that Leigh Fermor himself might meet the Rosetta on the coast, but this plan had been quashed by Vickery. It was just too dangerous to risk so many valuable operatives in one place at once. If the Germans did spot the boat then why offer them the whole network on a plate? Besides, the walk inland would give Hunter’s men a chance to feel more at home on the island. Most of the men – Duffy, Phelps, Miller, Fletcher and Russell – had never set foot on Crete before, although to match them, White and Martin were both more than capable of swapping anecdotes with Hunter about the horror and chaos they had seen on the island back in May ’41. Though Fletcher, of course, would always have it in an argument that there was nothing to rival Dunkirk for the sort of fighting retreats that the Brits and their allies seemed to have gone in for in the last few years. Thank God, thought Hunter, that most of them still had a sense of humour.
*
Hunter thought that he knew the island well. Probably, apart perhaps for Woods, the best out of all in their party. It was not yet two years ago that he had first come here, with the Black Watch, but it seemed like an eternity and a very, very different world. Then, before the fighting had started, when they were still busy fortifying the island, he had walked for hour after hour in the hills. Had got to know some of the locals. To see and sample some of their ways, their habits, their lifestyle. They were a hard people, but hugely generous to those whom they liked and trusted. He wondered how much that trust had been changed in a year and a half of German occupation. He had heard terrible tales of atrocities against the civilian population – shootings, hostages, reprisals, torture and worse – and wasn’t sure whether or not to believe them.
Estimates suggested that there were now somewhere around 20,000 Germans on the island. In real terms the Nazis were everywhere. Hitler and his generals were now calling it ‘Festung Kreta’ – ‘Fortress Crete’.
There were, he had been told, still some of the Brits left who had, literally, missed the boat in ’41. And there were more British officers on the island besides Leigh Fermor. Well, that much was true, as was to be seen from the extraordinary and colourful Captain Ffinch.
Hunter hadn’t seen Leigh Fermor since that night in Cairo and he wondered if he had been told who was leading the little party from the new intelligence commando. In a way there was bound to be tension between his lot and SOE. They had a bit of an overlap and he wondered whether Leigh Fermor and his like might not resent the new force. He supposed that they might even see it as a criticism that Leigh Fermor and his SOE chums were not doing enough.
But he realised that now was not the time to worry about such things. If that was how it was then it was just too bad. He would deal with it. Yet it niggled. He recalled what Vickery had said to him. It was really not his concern. None of his business. All he had to do was get the job done. But what then about when the job involved working alongside not one but two mavericks? One – Woods – was a friend and also his superior, but equally Woods was his rival over Lara and might turn against him at any minute; the other man was an unknown quantity, as celebrated for his heroics as he was for his outrageous behaviour.
Leigh Fermor’s current HQ (he moved around regularly to avoid detection) was up in the mountains, above the little village of Kastamonitsa. There was a cave there apparently, which was the perfect hideout for their operation at Heraklion. It would take them a good three days to get there by foot.
Wilson’s men, in three patrols of twelve, had taken more direct routes to their objectives and planned to lay up directly above them, one at Heraklion, the other at Tymbaki. They had left a third patrol with the ‘dump’ of their own supplies above the beach as a useful source of resupply and emergency base.
