SBS, page 23
‘You’re a monster.’
‘No, Lieutenant. I am not a monster and you are not a hero. And your friend here is a coward and he will suffer. Very, very much. And now I will give you both a little time to rest and to think about what I have said. And then I will return.’
He turned sharply and one of the guards opened the door of the cell for him, closing it behind him. Hunter looked at Phelps, who was clutching his abdomen. ‘You alright, Sid?’
‘I, I think so, sir. Hurts like hell though.’
‘Don’t talk to me. I’m sorry, Sid. But if we’re going to live, this has got to look right.’
Gently, Hunter guided Phelps to the bed and helped him lie down.
‘Get some rest. We’re sure to need all our strength.’
*
Hunter walked across to one of the chairs and sat down. He paused and breathed slow and deep, trying to assimilate all that had just happened and to come up with some sort of plan. But nothing came. The mission was compromised and their covers blown. To say that their prospects looked bleak was an understatement. There was nothing else for it but to help Hilmann. But to do so would go against everything in which he believed and all the principles that had been drilled into him over the past months.
No, he could not do it. Phelps would have to suffer in order that others might live. One man’s pain in exchange for so much more. That was life. That, he thought, was war. Bloody, brutal, uncompromising and as so often, giving one man a terrible moral dilemma. And to his growing horror, Hunter knew that this time that man was him. He looked at Phelps. He was sleeping, his eyelids flickering and his face twitching. Dreaming. In anguish.
Hunter closed his own eyes and thought of sleep. But it would not come. Over and over again he retraced the argument in his mind and still there was no solution. He could not give in. Phelps would suffer. And then they would both die. It was not what he had had in mind for his life and he wondered for a moment what the years might have brought him and then stopped himself. No point. This was the end.
*
It was nearing one in the morning when Colonel Hilmann reappeared. He was smiling. He spoke to one of the guards: ‘Tie them both. Bind their hands. They’re coming with us.’
Within minutes Hunter and Phelps were on the move, being marched from the cells and out of the block, surrounded by four SS guards and preceded by the colonel. They walked through the almost deserted compound and stopped outside the signals office.
Hilmann turned to them. ‘You will be aware, Lieutenant, of what has happened.’
Hunter looked at him. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t pretend, Lieutenant. You know exactly what I mean. You know that last night, while you were here “gathering your information”, your friends attacked two other bases on the island. They destroyed sixteen aircraft and killed dozens of men. Don’t tell me that you didn’t know that, Lieutenant. It won’t make things any easier. Yours was to be the third attack, was it not? But you lied to me.’
He paused for a moment and Hunter wondered if he had somehow discovered the truth about their mission.
‘Your friends are not going to drop by parachute, are they? They are already here. And now you are going to contact them, as arranged and you are going to let them know that everything is ready for their third attack, tonight. You are going to send a message to your friends and tell them exactly what I tell you to. And if you do not, well, we shall see what happens to this man. And so will you.’
They were pushed inside the building and entered the radio office where two Wehrmacht signals soldiers were seated, one at a radio transmitter.
Hilmann spoke: ‘Sit down. Just you, Lieutenant. Your friend will remain standing. You know how to use this thing?’
‘Yes, of course, it’s a simple transmitter.’
The German radio operator stood up and Hunter took his seat.
‘As a matter of fact you’re right. It is one of yours. It was left behind here last May when we captured the island. Apparently it has proved most useful in sending out false messages. Your Morse code is very distinctive. But of course it is no longer secure. We have many signals operators who are able to understand it. I presume you know the call sign for your friends?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Then we shall have no problems. It’s a good start, Lieutenant. Begin.’
Hunter sat facing the transmitter and turned one of the dials. Then another. The German signaller pulled up a chair and sat watching him. The colonel spoke again: ‘And just in case you do not transmit what I tell you, Corporal Schmidt here will be watching you. He understands Morse code and he speaks very, very good English. Now listen to me very carefully and tap out only exactly what I say.’
Slowly, and with great attention to detail, the colonel gave Hunter the information. It differed in almost every aspect from the details of the defence and routine of the camp that Leigh Fermor had given to Hunter and his men. Hunter tapped away at the transmitter, watched dutifully all the time by the signaller. Twice the colonel stopped and nodded to Schmidt to ensure that Hunter was sending the right messages. Schmidt nodded back to him and he carried on.
Suddenly Hunter stopped and put down the transmitter. ‘No. I won’t do it. I can’t.’
Without warning, Hilmann struck him a blow to the head, which sent him crashing against the desk. Hunter straightened up as the colonel spoke: ‘Don’t be a fool. It was going so well.’
‘No. I won’t do it.’
Hilmann nodded to one of the guards, who was standing next to Phelps and then barked an order. Instantly, the man smashed the butt of his machine pistol with sickening force, hard against Phelps’s back, aiming at his kidneys. Phelps screamed and collapsed to the floor. The guard stood over him and dealt him a full, jackbooted kick in the face, which connected with his nose, cracking it. Phelps clutched at his bleeding face and as he did so, the guard again brought down the butt of his gun, this time on Phelps’s shoulder. Phelps screamed again and the guard raised his weapon, ready to smash it into his head. Hunter rose from his chair, only to be pushed back by the other guard just as the colonel shouted to the guard to stop.
As the man returned his weapon to rest, Hilmann spoke again: ‘You see, Lieutenant. This is how it will be now. But this is only the beginning. This is the clumsy part. Next things will become – how do you say it? – so much more intimate. So much more delicate. Pain is an extraordinary thing. You think you cannot feel any more and then suddenly it can start all over again in such a new and interesting way. I have other men who have a way with knives. Such a way. They really can’t wait to introduce themselves to your friend.’
Hunter watched as Phelps writhed on the floor. After a few moments he picked up the transmitter and began to tap again.
Hilmann applauded. ‘There we are. You see? So easy. So very sensible. Now where were we?’
*
For the next half an hour, Hunter tapped out messages to the commandos. Messages that were sure to lure them in just far enough. Just close enough to the airfield so that they would be completely surrounded by the colonel’s men. They had put Phelps on a chair now and he was holding a cloth to his broken nose, which was still bleeding intermittently. A few nasty bruises and a smashed nose were one thing, thought Hunter. An encounter with Colonel Hilmann’s ‘men with knives’ was quite another and he was certainly not prepared to sacrifice Phelps in the name of deception. So he carried on tapping away; sending out the colonel’s messages into the night.
*
And as he did so, miles away, on the south side of the island, a Morse receiving unit had sprung into life. Now it had been receiving strangely worded messages for almost half an hour. They detailed the troops strengths, routines and details of the layout of the airfield at Heraklion.
The man who was receiving them was not sure what to make of them. He had no idea why the messages had been sent to him, or indeed what they might mean, but the call sign attached to them had been ‘Scotsman’ and if there was one thing that Dick Gorringe, aboard the Rosetta, where she lay under her camouflage covers, had imprinted on his mind, it was that word. Scotsman. It meant only one thing. Wherever he was and for whatever reason he was sending these strange messages, Jim Hunter was still alive.
*
Sandy Wilson’s men had done well to move so far and so fast in the darkness. Well, it was partly down to the skill of their guide. In the last half an hour, they had moved south-east, in what Wilson would have thought must have been cross-country, but which proved to be a series of tiny paths, which took them safely through the hills. Now they were climbing again and the terrain was becoming more and more difficult. Wilson spoke to the Greek: ‘Much further, Andrea?’
The man shrugged and grinned at him. ‘Less than an hour, sir.’
That, though was what they always said. Every time you asked them how far it was it was always: ‘Less than an hour, boss.’
The six men, all that was left now of Wilson’s command, carried on behind him, climbing steadily until they were able to see, on a ridge, partly hidden by an olive grove, what looked like a small chapel. Andrea turned to Wilson. ‘This is it. Here is the church. Here is Kapitan Woods.’
‘Thank you Andrea. Let’s get up there.’
As they approached the little church Wilson held up his hand to halt and they all sank to one knee. Andrea cupped his hands together and made the sound of an owl hooting. Three times, with a gap between each. He was answered by a low whistle. Wilson got to his feet and the men followed, before advancing towards the building. Fletcher was standing behind the low wall, waiting for them. Woods appeared at the doorway. ‘Wilson? What’s happened. What’s gone wrong?’
Wilson turned on him. ‘Wrong? Just about anything that possibly could have. I’ve lost twelve good men and the crew of the caique. Dead or captured. All of them.’
‘How did it happen? Did they get to the airfields?’
‘Oh, they got to their objectives alright. Carried out their jobs perfectly. Planes destroyed, dozens of enemy dead and wounded. But they were sloppy. Someone slipped up and a guard managed to track them. The Germans found them at the boat. I heard it all on the radio.’
‘God, that’s awful. Poor buggers.’
‘That’s not all.’
‘What?’
‘Your man Hunter’s in trouble. Big trouble. I’ve no idea of the details, but he didn’t make it out of the camp by H Hour. I had to call off my op.’
‘What’s happened to them?’
‘Like I said, I’ve no idea. But when I left the place was alive with guards. The searchlights were all over it and we could see two patrols setting out up the hill.’
Woods shook his head. It was unbelievable. How on earth had Hunter and his men been caught? Everything had been planned in such meticulous detail. But no sooner had he asked himself the question, than he came up with an answer.
It was, after all, just typical of a mission in which Hunter was involved that something should have gone badly wrong. The man was a jinx. A Jonah. It seemed clear to Woods now that everything in which Hunter had been involved had ended in some sort of cock-up. For God’s sake, the man had even scuppered his own love life. Wilson was a professional. A proper soldier. A real commando. Hunter was an amateur. By anyone’s standards. They’d been doomed even before they had started.
He looked back at Wilson. ‘I’m sorry. I had a bad feeling about this one.’
‘I reckon he’s dead. That or he’s a POW. They might all be, for all I know.’
Woods thought for a moment. And then he was gripped by a strange feeling of certainty. ‘But perhaps they’re not dead. Or captured. Not if there are patrols going out. Not if the Jerries are mounting a search of the area.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it.’
Noticing the half-full bottle of retsina sitting on a low table by the door, Wilson pointed to it. ‘Christ, I could murder a drop of that.’ He walked over to the bottle and removing the cork, held it to his lips and took a glug. ‘What a bloody night, Woods. What a bloody night.’
‘What will you do now?’
‘We need to get away. We all do. You too. This place will be crawling with Jerries in no time.’
‘They don’t dare come in here the locals say. They think its haunted.’
‘Ghosts or no ghosts, I reckon they’ll come here just the same. They’ll be out for revenge. I’m taking my men down to your boat.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Watch me. And you’ll come with us, if you’re sensible. We’ve no other choice. The only radio set is on that boat and there’s no other way of getting off, unless we call up a sub.’
For a moment, Woods was tempted. If Hunter really was a jinx, then why not just leave him here? But then he thought of the others. Who knew how many might still be alive and on the run. He couldn’t leave them. Their blood would be on his conscience.
‘What about Hunter’s lot?’
‘Hunter’s gone, Woods. Forget him. They’re all gone. Your caique will take you three and me and all of my men and we can slip off before Jerry has time to catch up.’
Woods said nothing for a while. White watched him in silence, while Wilson’s men sat around, exhausted, resting against the walls of the church. He weighed up the situation again. In a sense Wilson was right. With the mission a failure, there was little point in sacrificing men who might get away for the sake of others who could not. That was the commando’s way. And it was the squadron’s way. But, he thought, it was not his way. He had a code of honour. A code instilled by his father and backed up by everything he believed in as a British officer.
‘I don’t like it. I can’t believe that they’re all dead or POWs.’
‘Face it, man. They’re gone. Your man Hunter messed up and it cost him his life and cost us the operation. The ball’s in your court. What a cock-up.’
Woods stared at him, his perspective suddenly altered. This was a more serious accusation. ‘You’re actually blaming my officer for aborting your mission? Blaming me?’
‘That’s what I said, isn’t it? He was meant to get in there, get what you wanted and get out. Well he didn’t. He cocked up, didn’t he? They caught him. So now nobody wins. You and your bloody spook bosses in Cairo don’t get whatever it was you wanted. I don’t get what I was ordered to do. And Hunter and his men? Well, they just don’t get to live.’
‘You’re just bitter because of your men at the other airfields. There’s no point in taking out your anger on us.’
‘Isn’t there? I intend to file a full report when we get back to Cairo. Then we’ll see who’s right and who’s wrong. What matters right now is getting off this bloody island. You’d be best to come away with us. You’re a fool if you don’t. Chasing after dead men.’ He turned to his men. ‘Right, lads. Up you get. We’ve got a march ahead and we’d better make use of the night. Andrea, we need to get down to the other boat. Yes?’
‘Yes, sir. I will show you the way. It is a most pretty part of the island.’
There was suddenly a noise from outside the chapel and Woods heard Fletcher giving a whistle. The reply to the owl call. The password. Thinking that it must be Hunter, Woods dashed to the doorway. Fletcher was there, staring into the darkness. Listening.
‘Someone out there, sir. Not sure who yet.’
‘Mister Hunter?’
‘Don’t know, sir. Hard to tell. It’s one of us, though.’
A figure came towards them out of the night. It had the gathered outline of a German Army tunic and baggy trousers and for an instant both men froze and instinctively levelled their weapons. It drew closer. Woods called out, ‘Who are you, there? Identify yourself.’
A distinctive, Scottish voice spoke: ‘Sergeant Knox, sir.’
Another voice: ‘And Private Martin, sir.’
Both men walked towards the chapel and in the dim light, Woods recognised them. ‘Thank God. We thought you’d had it.’
Knox spoke: ‘Not us, sir. Not yet. They’ve got Mister Hunter, though, and Phelps. And I reckon Duffy and Russell too.’
‘What happened?’
Sergeant Knox told the story. ‘It was all going well, sir. We got in. Managed to pull off the whole thing. Mister Hunter was bloody brilliant, sir. A right, proper Jerry officer. And Duffy too.’
‘Go on.’
‘So we get into the office and I’m right into it. Get right into the safe, nae bother and there’s mountains of papers in there. So I hand them to Phelpsy and he goes through them and anything that looks tasty, he passes to Harry who looks at them and takes a snap. And then we get to the bottom of the pile and we’ve no found the bloody thing we’re after. But then Phelpsy finds it, stuck tae some blotting paper. We got it, sir.’ Martin reached into his tunic pocket and produced the brown papers.
Woods grabbed them, grinning. ‘You did it. You got the bloody thing. Well done, boys. Bloody marvellous. What about the others? What happened?’
‘Well, that’s it, sir. It was Phelpsy. Hadn’t been himself for a while. But then you knew that. And he’s in the office and doing his stuff and we put it all back and I close the safe and it all looks tickety-boo. Like nothing’s ever happened. And we get ready to scarper. And then he just flips. He sort of loses it. He lashes out at a photo that’s sitting on the desk. Some Jerry family it was. And it flies off and lands on the floor and the glass breaks and goes everywhere. Well at first we think someone’s heard it, but no one comes so we just brass it out and leave the place and Mister Hunter’s looking after Phelpsy. But Russell and Duffy have gone off to the signals hut and we can’t see them. So Mister Hunter arranges for us all to get out and he guides us through the wire. And Martin and me and Phelpsy all get out and find Mister Hunter. But then we lose Phelpsy. Seems he’s gone back in. So Mister Hunter tells us to leg it and says that he’ll go back in, find Duffy and Russell and he’ll look after Phelpsy. And that’s about it. And somehow we managed to get back here.’
