SBS, page 14
If the principal two raids went well and there was still time in the schedule arranged with their transport, then another raid on Kastelli airstrip would be a bonus. That at least was Wilson’s plan.
Hunter, Woods and the men of the new unit spent the first night after the landing with Ffinch and the remaining two andartes under the stars in a high ravine up in the hills above the sea, filled with bright pink, sweet-scented oleander bushes, still in bloom. Ffinch now properly introduced the two andartes to them.
‘Captain Woods, Lieutenant Hunter. I don’t think I properly introduced you to Andros. Andros is one of our best agents. He’s only eighteen but he’s been working with us since the island fell.’
The boy was unusually clean-shaven and had a baby face, but his eyes told of a deep sadness and bitterness. Andros smiled at them and shook both of their hands before turning away to get back to his work.
Ffinch spoke more quietly for a moment. ‘Lovely chap. His entire family was murdered by the Germans last year in reprisal for the shooting of three Germans. His father was implicated. They strung the old man up in the village square and shot his wife and two daughters in front of him before they kicked away the chair. Andros saw it all and managed to escape into the hills. That’s where we found him, with Bourdzalis’s band. He’s part of our mob now. Ah, here’s Grigori.’
He turned to the older of the two andartes, a darker-skinned man whom Hunter reckoned must be in his late thirties, with a well-trimmed beard and dark, almost black hair. Ffinch introduced them as before and Grigori shook their hands, but he did not smile. He merely stared at them long and hard with deep brown eyes, before turning away.
Ffinch spoke again: ‘It’s an equally sad tale, if rather more intriguing. Grigori comes from that little village down in the valley. He’s married and has three children and a pretty wife, ten years his junior. Earlier this year he helped three downed British airmen escape from the Germans and got them off the island. Since then he hasn’t dared to return to his home or his village, in case he’s been found out. To all intents, he doesn’t exist. In fact in his village they posted his name on a wall. He’s been officially pronounced “dead”. That’s just so that his family won’t be targeted by the enemy. Even his wife believes that he’s perished and we’re doing what we can to keep up the illusion. And to keep her alive. That’s what hurts him the most. He lives for the day when the Germans are ejected from his homeland and he can finally return to his house and hold her and his children in his arms again. Until then his only purpose in life is to kill all the Germans he can. And, as he says, he’s a dead man. How can they possibly catch him, if he doesn’t exist?’
Hunter and Woods watched in admiration, as the two Greeks busied themselves about the important job of making supper. They killed a sheep and opened bottles of wine, retsina and ouzo. It was a quiet meal that morning, during which each man seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. The party was strictly to move only at night, so as the dawn broke, they found what sleep they could, while each of the men took it in turns to stand watch.
First though there was the morning’s glass of raki to drink. Ffinch explained that it was a Cretan custom, although Hunter had not come across it. It was meant to clear the head. Hunter drank his glass down and tried to sleep but so ‘clear’ was his head, that he found it hard.
He slept fitfully, his dreams haunted by images of Andros’s dead family and was only too happy to take his own turn on stag, using the time to gaze at his new surroundings, while all the time keeping an eye out for the smallest hint of danger. He need not have worried. Soon the place was thronging with visitors, andartes mostly, from various bands on the islands. All seemed to know Ffinch and greeted him as one might a distant cousin.
On the first evening they climbed higher and deeper into the hills and reached Skoinia where they spent another day resting. They moved on again after dusk had fallen, passing through a number of small villages as they went. As they approached the first of these Ffinch spoke to Hunter: ‘Woods tells me you speak German.’
‘It’s passable, but hardly perfect.’
‘Passable is fine, old boy. We have a little trick here, to stop the villagers coming out and spotting that a band of desperadoes is passing through. Wouldn’t be good for security. We impersonate the Hun.’
‘You do? Really?’
‘Oh, yes, we’ve got quite good at it. Look now, here comes a village and the doors are open.’ He turned to Woods and spoke to both officers: ‘Now. Watch me and then join in if you like, in your finest “mal Deutsch”! You’ll be astonished at what happens.’
As they approached the village, none of the men making any effort to reduce the noise level, it seemed that every dog in the area had started to bark at once.
As they entered Ffinch barked out commands. ‘Marsch! Los, Los!’
The two andartes joined in confident, if Greek-tinged German: ‘Marsch!’
‘Deutschland uber alles.’
‘Straffe England.’
Some of the men made an effort. German-speaker Harry Martin’s attempt brought the broad tones of Northern Ireland to the Horst Wessel song, creating something between an Irish folk ballad and an excerpt from comic opera.
‘Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen fest geschlossen!
SA marschiert mit ruhig festem Schritt.’
Fletcher harmonised, humming in a powerful Welsh baritone.
Hunter laughed and joined them:
‘Marsch, Marsch. Jawohl miene herren.’
Ffinch smiled and nodded his approval and as he did so, the doors and windows swiftly began to close until, when they found themselves halfway through the place, not a single one was open. The dogs though continued to stare at them and to bark their chorus of disapproval. Finally, as they exited the village Ffinch struck up a rousing chorus of ‘Lili Marleen’, in the original German, which they all joined in, Woods included, heartily placing the emphasis on the ‘einsts’.
For one ghastly moment Miller, who had sung the song in the face of the Afrika Korps, throughout the Western Desert, from Sidi Barrani to Tobruk, belted out half a verse in English, but he soon realised his blunder and managed to change hurriedly into a sort of ersatz German.
Not a door in the village opened. It was, thought Hunter, one of the most bizarre episodes in which he had ever taken part. Almost as soon as they had left the village they stopped and carried on in relative silence. But it served to create a curious bond between the commandos and the andartes, who now grinned at them as if they had all managed to pass some curious initiation test.
The party walked on through olive groves and under the rising forms of the ilex and cypress trees and eventually, as the dawn rose on another day, they arrived at the little hillside village of Kastamonitsa.
Ffinch said nonchalantly, ‘We have to be a little quieter here. There’s a German military hospital in the village.’
Woods looked at him incredulously. Surely they were walking right into the lion’s den? ‘What? You can’t really be serious?’
‘Oh yes, it’s easily the best way to stay inconspicuous. Here among the sick Huns. We just have to hide for a day. Best keep your heads down, though. They do have the occasional passing sentry. Just for show, in case the local SS pass through.’
And so they found themselves taking refuge in the upper attic storeys of two whitewashed houses, opposite each other, but which belonged to the same family of another of the andartes, Kimon Zographakis, a sour-faced, bitter young man, whose younger brother had recently been shot by the Germans.
Hunter and Woods were billeted in one house, along with Phelps, Duffy and Martin. Ffinch and Sergeant Knox were in the other house, with Russell, Miller, White and Fletcher. The two Greeks blended into the village and found their own modest billets among the friendly villagers, taking with them the now unburdened pack mules. All of the boxes of supplies were taken up into the two attics and all the men made good use of their time under shelter to sort out their kit and get themselves in good order. And as they did so, Kimon’s two pretty sisters along with his mother and ‘baby’ brother (who was actually seventeen) came and went, bearing wine and olives and flatbreads and goat’s cheese and small cups of strong sweet black coffee.
From time to time the party inadvertently looked down from the windows and once Hunter saw a passing German, his rifle slung, gazing from house to house, and he quickly ducked back into the shadows of the eaves.
Hunter was pleased and somewhat surprised to find that they had actually been given beds with sheets and pillows to sleep in and, gratefully, he settled down for a good rest.
*
They slept soundly that afternoon and into the evening, but on rising he discovered that he had been bitten head to foot by fleas. Desperately trying not to scratch, he approached one of Kimon’s sisters and asked her in Greek to whom the bed belonged.
She smiled at him. ‘Oh it’s mine, your honour. Your friend is in my sister’s bed.’ She smiled again. ‘We are very happy for you to have them. You need to rest to fight the Germans.’
Hunter murmured a grateful thanks and walked over to Woods, noticing that he too was clandestinely scratching at his side.
‘Good sleep, Peter?’
Woods smiled at him. ‘Best I’ve had these past few days. Rather an itchy mattress, though.’
He scratched at his leg, this time. While Hunter scratched at his own head and neck.
‘Yes, I’m the same. Our lovely beds belong to Kimon’s sisters, apparently.’
‘Yes, apparently so. Very kind of them, don’t you think?’
‘Very generous. And so kind of them to give us both a small present or two to take away with us.’
Woods smiled at him and laughed.
Then, as the sun sank below the horizon, it was time to leave the Zographakis household. Kimon’s mother wailed and implored them all to come back soon. And the daughters too looked genuinely sad to see them all go, although they were obviously keen to regain the comfort of their flea-infested beds.
With Ffinch leading the way, with Kimon as a further escort from Kastamonitsa, and under the cloudless moon lighting their way, they left the little village behind them and after a while reached the foot of the mountains. Here Kimon bade them a surly farewell and they carried on led by Ffinch, climbing up over the hard shale rocks up an almost non-existent goat track for what seemed like forever, but was in reality no more than three and a half hours. Higher and higher they went. Hunter paused for breath and looked down the mountain towards the distant village down a black gorge, lit up in the moonlight.
They were on a ridge now and Russell turned to Hunter. ‘Blimey, boss. How much further d’you think it is?’
‘Yes, it is quite hard going, isn’t it.’
Martin chimed in: ‘Can’t be much further though, can it? Really, sir?’
The ridge continued for another mile, and they kept walking until Ffinch called them to a halt with a wave of his hand, and found Woods and Hunter. ‘We’re almost there, but I don’t think we should travel any further in the dark. It’s a little treacherous if you don’t know the terrain. We’ll tether the mules and get some kip.’
Woods spoke: ‘Are you quite sure that’s safe?’
Ffinch raised his hand, brushing away the worry. ‘Oh, Jerry won’t trouble us up here. In fact, he’s never been up here. Whatever his sacred Mountain Troops might boast about. We’re higher than any of their bloody edelweiss.’
He posted just one sentry, in the first instance Andros. They gave the mules to Andros who took them off to a group of ilex trees, then they all looked around for somewhere to sleep. Away from the track the ground was covered with lush vegetation and following Captain Ffinch’s example and that of one of the Greeks not on watch, the men each found their own spot, with a rock for a pillow, and were soon drifting in and out of consciousness.
Dawn was just an hour and a half later, at around four, and it came up with a gentle glow, which gave an almost magical air to the landscape that greeted Hunter’s slowly opening eyes. They were indeed, as Ffinch had said, very, very high up the mountain, but he had imagined that they had climbed to the top of the island and what instantly astonished him was that there were even higher mountains rising above them, in every direction, their white peaks crowned with snow.
The slow, growing dawn transformed the landscape minute by changing minute, as they watched and Hunter caught sight of several of the men as, awestruck, they took in the panorama.
Ffinch started them all up, but this morning without the customary raki. This was clearly not the time for that. Despite its restorative powers, they needed all their wits about them. For the rest of the journey was as dangerous as any Hunter and Woods had ever attempted. Slowly, they continued in nervous single file along the top of the ridge, which it seemed was gradually becoming narrower and narrower until Hunter wondered where it might eventually end. He did not have long to wait to find out. After about just under an hour of perilous ridge walking, Ffinch signalled them all to stop.
Hunter watched as Ffinch and Andros made their way to the edge of the ridge and then, to his horror, disappeared from view as they began to descend down what looked like a sheer, vertical cliff face. He found Woods. ‘Christ, Peter, old “Eff Eff” wasn’t bloody joking about the danger.’
It was their new name for the eccentric captain. Woods raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, I must say, I’m rather glad we didn’t attempt this in the dark.’
One by one, with their weapons securely strapped to their backs, the men approached the top of the cliff face and then slid and skidded their way down the rock. Ahead of them, they could see Andros and Grigori, leading their laden mules, which incredibly seemed to be more sure-footed on this crazy incline than on flat ground. Looking down, as he slid over the rocks, Hunter saw that his destination was a ledge, wide enough to take three men abreast, but which, he guessed, could not be seen from below and, cleverly, would look merely as if it were part of the cliff above.
At last he reached it, brushing himself down and checking to see if his slither down the rocks had caused any rips in his clothing. All was fine, although Miller had torn the leg of his trousers and Phelps the sleeve of his tunic. There were no casualties, save a couple of minor abrasions to Fletcher’s hand and Martin’s ankle.
Ffinch was there to meet them. ‘Here we are, gentlemen, at last.’
He pointed to a cave, barely discernible in the gloom, a few yards above them surrounded by towering crags and groups of tall ilex trees.
‘Chez Paddy. Come on.’
They followed him and as they reached the mouth of the cave were greeted by the unmistakable, imposing figure of Captain Patrick Leigh Fermor, of the Special Operations Executive. Paddy was somewhat leaner and more battle-hardened than Hunter remembered him from that last time in Cairo, but it was probably on account of the new context in which he now saw him and might also have had something to do with his dress. Leigh Fermor seemed to have dressed for a leading role in a budget production of The Desert Song, or perhaps an amateur repertory performance of Ali Baba.
He wore a voluminous white shirt and over it a sleeveless embroidered jacket. His trousers were a pair of cavalry officer’s whipcord jodhpurs, tucked neatly into tall black riding boots. The whole ensemble was completed with a wide burgundy-coloured cummerbund into which he had stuck a pearl-handled colt revolver and a dagger with a damascened silver handle. He looked like a pirate king. He smiled broadly and extended his arms. ‘Welcome, all of you. So wonderful to see you.’
Ffinch slapped him on the cheek, in the Cretan manner of greeting, and was rewarded with one in return. Together, thought Hunter, the two of them made a perfect pair.
‘Paddy, allow me to introduce Captain Peter Woods and Lieutenant Jim Hunter and their men.’
Leigh Fermor looked at both of them, then alighted on Hunter. ‘Don’t I know you? I do.’
‘Yes, we met in Cairo. At Tara.’
Leigh Fermor squinted at him. ‘Oh yes. You’re that fellow in the fight. What a glorious night that was.’ He looked at Woods. ‘I say. You’re the other chap, aren’t you? Weren’t you two fighting over a girl? That’s a bit rum isn’t it? Sending you both off here. Together I mean?’ He laughed. Neither Woods nor Hunter said anything. ‘Anyway. Not our problem. Miles away from all that. I do presume you are talking to one another?’
Woods laughed. ‘Not a problem at all, Captain.’ He shot Hunter a smile. ‘Is it, Jim? We’re the very best of friends.’
‘That’s good and it’s Paddy, please. I’m Paddy to everyone. You’ll find that we’re very informal here. Now come and meet our host.’
Leigh Fermor ushered the two of them inside the cave, which was tiny, perhaps eight feet square by six in height. There was just room for the three of them plus its owner. A blanket of leaves and ferns covered the floor. Ahead of them an old man in peasant clothing was seated before a rock fireplace. On his head he wore a traditional Cretan fringed turban and an embroidered waistcoat and a pair of baggy ‘crap catchers’. And all of his clothes, apart from his white shirt, were black. He looked at them as they entered, flashing them a toothless grin. Leigh Fermor introduced him: ‘This is Siphoyannis. The finest goatherd in Crete and one of my very best friends.’ He turned to the old man and spoke in perfect, fluent Greek, with a hint of Cretan dialect: ‘Aren’t you, my friend. You are my very good friend.’
The man smiled and nodded.
‘It’s the perfect place. There is a clear stream for washing and drinking. I can see for miles and am the first to know of the approach of any enemy patrols. I am supplied with food, olive oil, cigarettes, wine and raki by my friends in the villages. What could possibly be better?’
*
And so, the four officers sat outside the cave, the trees offering shelter from the wind. More raki was drunk and Leigh Fermor explained to them some of the ways of Cretan society. Much was already familiar to Hunter but he happily sat back and listened attentively and let the raki do its work. He was just thinking how lucky he was to be there when Leigh Fermor dropped his bombshell.
