Jackals' Revenge Page 11

  He walked past the sentry, returned the salute and entered a marble hall with a sweeping staircase. Two officers were talking at the foot of it and Lamb, recognising one of them, approached him.

  ‘Geordie Crawford.’

  ‘Peter, good God, what on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Adrift again, would you believe? Lost the rest of the battalion in Greece and then came over here. And you? I suppose you’re with the Black Watch at Heraklion.’

  ‘Yes, in a manner of speaking. It’s actually not my battalion, but I asked the colonel if I could come along for the ride, and then all this happened. So now I’m acting liaison officer with Brigadier Chappel. We’re just on our way back there now. You know Paddy Leigh-Fermor, our IO?’

  Lamb nodded at the suave, thin young man, who smiled back.

  ‘This is Peter Lamb, Paddy. I told you about him. We came through Normandy together. Keeps losing his battalion.’

  Leigh-Fermor smiled. ‘Ah, so you’re the chap who got those men away at St Valéry. Well done. You should be with our lot at the Military Mission. I could put in a word.’

  ‘Quite happy where I am, thanks. I still have a company, whatever Crawford might tell you. I’m here to see Colonel Kippenberger.’

  ‘He’s through in the office. In quite a good mood today, actually. Better see WO2 Morris over there first, though. Good luck, Peter. I’d say we’d see you soon, but I doubt it. It’s bloody murder trying to get here from Heraklion. The coast road’s shot to hell and there’s no transport to be had for love nor money. Try to get across to us. I’ll stand you dinner. You’ll find us at Brigade HQ.’

  As they left, Lamb walked through the bustle of other officers and NCOs and reported to WO2 Morris, who directed him into what had been the salon.

  Colonel Kippenberger was seated behind an ornate mahogany and ormolu desk with gigantic cabriole legs which, while it complemented perfectly the style of the Venetian villa, looked absurd as the office furniture of an army officer in service dress. When Lamb came in he rose to greet him. He was a tall man in his mid forties, with heavy eyebrows and a broad smile.

  ‘Captain Lamb, heard a lot about you. All of it good, I’m afraid.’ He laughed. ‘What do you think of this place? Biggest house in Galatas, I’m told. Fascinating island, don’t you think? Shame we don’t really have time to explore it properly. I’m told that the palace at Knossos is extraordinary.’

  He looked down at his paperwork. ‘So, Lamb, you’ve quite a reputation, it seems. Didn’t you hold a bridge against a Jerry division in France and then get some men away in Normandy?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Kippenberger flicked through some papers.

  ‘You also got some British civilians away from Athens, and now it seems you’ve saved a member of the Greek Royal Family. The point is, Lamb, I’ve just been given some Greeks. Two battalions of them, in fact, and a spare company. General Freyberg has taken it into his head to mix in a few locals and make them into some sort of militia. The Crete Home Guard, you might call it.’

  Lamb smiled.

  ‘But there’s a problem. The King’s not very keen on the idea. You see he’s fine with the Greeks, but he doesn’t want the Cretans to get their weapons back. Thinks they’ll rise up against him again, like they did in 1935, under Venizelos. But they’re all damned useful men and I think they’ll fight damn well, given the chance. So that’s where you come in. Particularly since you seem to be in with the Royal Family.’

  Lamb winced and hoped that Kippenberger had not somehow got wind of his mission. ‘I’m not exactly in with them, sir.’

  ‘You saved the Prince’s life, Lamb. If that’s not “in”, tell me what is? Fact is, some of the Greeks need training, and bloody quick, and keeping out of mischief, and someone with a title has suggested that you might be the man to do it.’

  ‘So we are digging in then, sir? All of us, defending the island?’

  ‘That’s about the long and short of it. The German army is about to descend on this place and we need every man we can get, including your mob.’ He looked up. ‘You’re quite a man. Reckon you can knock a few Greeks into shape?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled then.’

  ‘Do we know when they’ll attack, sir? I mean, how much time have I got?’

  Kippenberger hesitated. ‘No, naturally we can’t say for sure when they’ll come. But it’s my guess they’ll attack soon enough. And when they do, well, as I said, we’ll need every man we can get. D’you speak Greek?’

  ‘No, sir. Just a few words. But one of my men does.’

  ‘That’s lucky. Only their officers have any English. I’m giving you the odd company, Lamb. You’ll need to rearm them. They’re using ancient Austrian rifles at the moment but we’re expecting new stuff to arrive from Egypt at any time. Oh, and they’re down to ten rounds a man, if that. See what you can do with them, Lamb. I’m not expecting any bloody miracles. Just an effective fighting force to hold a defensive position. That’s all.’

  He pushed the papers away to the sides of his table to reveal a map of the area, and beckoned Lamb. ‘Look here. At the moment they’re encamped near here. 6th Greek regiment are between Pink Hill south east across Cemetery Hill down to the Alikianou–Canea road. The 8th Greeks are stuck out on a limb. They’re on this stretch of hills further down Prison Valley, just to the north of Alikianou. I’ve signalled General Weston that I intend to pull them back, but as yet I’ve had no response. So at present there’s a socking great gap between the two Greek regiments, and that’s where you fit in, Lamb, with your Greek odds and sods. Your men are going to fill that gap. Just here.’

  He pointed to an area on the map, stretching from the lake just north of Alikianou, up the main Canea road to Pink Hill.

  ‘When Jerry does attack I’m willing to bet that it’ll be at Maleme first. He’ll want that airfield to bring in the second wave. But I’ve no doubt that Galatas will be the second line. Oh, and look out for another bunch of Greeks up by the cemetery. Funny lot. Some regulars, some civilians. They’re under another one of our chaps. Man named Hathaway. Part of the military mission. Not your “run of the mill” officer, if you get my drift.’

  Lamb smiled. ‘Yes, sir, of course. I’ve heard of him.’

  He got the colonel’s ‘drift’ all right, and he was cheered by it. Kippenberger might have supposed that he was agreeing with him in a shared abhorrence of the unorthodox. But inside, Lamb found himself suddenly more optimistic. There was nothing that bored him more than ‘run of the mill’ officers.

  7

  Lamb’s Greeks, when he found them, proved a sorry-looking bunch.

  The first thing he noticed was the state of their clothing. He could hardly make a fuss given the fact that his own men were dressed in a mixture of serge battledress, denims and khaki drill, but he had thought that, with the Greeks being in what passed as part of their own country, they might have at least had more recourse to a change of uniform. He looked them over, drawn up in an area among the vineyards on the upper slopes of Pink Hill, and they stared back at him, some of them grinning, some simply perplexed.

  Lamb turned to Bennett. ‘Think you can lick this lot into shape, Sarnt-Major?’

  ‘Well, sir, I reckon we can do something with them. If we can’t, who can? Could do with some new togs, mind you.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll have to see someone about that. What really matters right now, though, is the man inside the togs. Just remember, we don’t want this lot to go on parade at Horse Guards. We’re here to make sure they can fight well and kill well, when the time comes.’

  He turned back to the bemused Greeks. ‘Right. First things first. What have we got for them to fight with? Sarnt Mays, where are their weapons?’

  Piled on a cart on the dirt track which curved up the hill beside the position lay the ancient Austrian Steyers with which they had originally been equipped, together with all of the precious Lee Enfields that Hat
haway had been able to scrounge from the depot. There were bayonets, too, and ammunition, but Lamb noticed that there was not much of that and he did not intend to waste any more rounds than he needed to in exercises.

  Lamb did a quick head count and noted 120 other ranks, thirteen NCOs and two lieutenants. That would do. ‘Sarnt-Major, tell them off into three platoons of forty men, each of them to have a platoon commander and four NCOs. I’ll take one of the platoons, and you can give one each to Lieutenant Eadie and Mr Wentworth.’

  As the Greeks and Cretans were sub-divided, he turned to Valentine. ‘Sarnt Valentine, I need an interpreter, and it looks like it’s you. Let’s kick off with some basic fieldcraft, shall we?’

  Lamb thought for a moment who among his own men might be the best to demonstrate, then called out, ‘Corporal Hughes, Corporal Hale. Would you assist us?’

  Under Lamb’s instructions, the two corporals showed the Greeks first of all how to walk forward with your head up and your rifle at the ready. Then there was the leopard crawl, in which you slithered along the ground, with the rifle held in front, the monkey run, the roll into cover, and of course the ghost crawl for use in long grass. The Greeks seemed to enjoy it. There was certainly a deal of laughter, though whether they had actually learnt anything Lamb wasn’t entirely sure.

  He shouted at his new platoon, his command was echoed by Valentine, and it occurred to him that without an interpreter the other two officers might not be making as much progress, if any at all. It was lucky that he had taken on poor Harry Sugden’s platoon as his own, made up as it was mostly of the newer intake. Eadie had Wilkinson and Perkins to demonstrate, and Wentworth, Mays and Butterworth. They’d manage. After all, hadn’t he taught them everything they knew?

  As the corporals dusted themselves down, Lamb looked at the grinning Greeks and adopted a sober tone which he hoped Valentine could interpret. ‘Soon the Germans will attack,’ he told them. ‘Whatever you might think and say, they are good soldiers, the Germans. Some of you have fought them before. If you listen to me you will have a better chance not to be killed and a better chance to kill more Germans.’

  As Valentine translated in his half ancient-Greek patois they stopped chattering and became serious. The officers nodded. Lamb went on.

  ‘The Germans know how to fight. They know how to use cover and terrain and how to creep up to you without being seen. And by then it’s too late. Because by then you’ll be dead.’

  Valentine translated. There was now utter silence among the Greeks.

  He walked across to the nearest Greek and motioned to him to hand over his rifle, one of Hathaway’s. Lamb looked at it. The Lee Enfield. Standard issue, 44 inches long, bolt action .303 calibre. The classic infantry rifle was almost nine pounds in weight, with a maximum range apparently of 3,000 yards but, as Lamb and most of his men knew well, an effective range of just over 500 yards. It held a magazine of ten rounds and it could be horribly effective. He remembered one of the first things his musketry instructor had taught him in training. The Enfield had been used since before the First War, but in the right hands it really was a remarkable killing weapon. The instructor had told them with glee how in the First War the Germans had reported that they had come up against British machine-guns which had cut them down in great sweeping fields of fire, a never-ending rain of lead. In fact their enemy had only been a platoon of infantry equipped with Lee Enfields.

  In theory the gun was capable of firing 15 rounds per minute. But any well-trained rifleman Lamb knew, could fire off 20 or even 30 rounds in the same time. Of course, he mused, that rate of fire would hardly be a problem here on the island, given the shortage of ammunition. But he thought it might just help to give them the ability for rapid fire should they ever have the chance. And, more importantly perhaps, it would raise their morale.

  ‘Sarnt-Major, set up a target against that tree.’

  Bennett found a piece of sacking on the cart and tied it to the olive tree so that it splayed out in a square shape.

  Lamb continued, ‘I want you to imagine that that sack is a man. Watch me. Don’t look at the target. Look at what I’m doing. Watch how I shoot the gun.’ Valentine translated, and Lamb flipped up the bolt and fired. Again and again and again he did it, in an easy, fluid motion. He jettisoned the first magazine and slammed in another, reloading ‘in the shoulder’, with the rifle still aimed at the target. The Greeks watched closely as he worked the bolt with just his thumb and forefinger and used his second finger to squeeze the trigger.

  Again and again the bullets slammed into the target on the tree. And then he was done. The Greeks burst into spontaneous applause. Gun smoking, Lamb walked across to the tree, followed by the first few ranks of the Greeks.

  ‘There you are. Not bad for starters. Now who wants a go?’ Seven of the shots were grouped around where the heart might have been, with ten in the torso area of vital organs. Three had gone through the top of the sack – through the head.

  Bennett looked at the target and smiled. ‘Not bad, sir.’

  The Greeks laughed and clapped him on the back, and those without weapons began to queue up to get their rifles from the cart.

  He allowed them only a few rounds each, just enough to get their eye in. Besides, he was more concerned that they should learn bayonet and knife fighting.

  Had they been the Cretan division left in Albania, of course, there would have been no problem, for the inhabitants of the island were brought up in a culture of self-defence and street brawls to protect their family honour. These Greeks, though, seemed to Lamb to be as mixed a bag as he had ever seen in his own or any British battalion.

  Lamb walked towards a man in the front rank and, reaching into his own belt, pulled out the fighting knife that, unusually for an officer, he kept attached to it in a sheath. It was seven inches long, and Lamb had won it in Cairo from a furious British officer of marine commandos who had just come out from England. It was sleek, foil-gripped and double edged and looking a little like a stiletto, but like nothing he had ever seen or handled before. Apparently it had been designed in Shanghai and was only currently in experimental development. But the moment Lamb had seen it he had wanted it, and a game of backgammon after dinner in Alex had brought him his chance. He had had no opportunity to use it as yet, but knew that the time must come soon. He turned it in his hand now and its blade caught the sunlight. Lamb slipped into an attacking pose and began to move towards one of the Greeks. The man froze, panicked and then, when he saw that Lamb was in earnest, tried to mimic him. Lamb circled and, before the man could think, had his head locked in his left arm, with the knife dangerously close to his throat. The other Greeks said nothing; they just looked on in horror. Some were smiling.

  Lamb let the man go. ‘Sorry about that. But that’s how they will fight you. There is no more deadly weapon than the knife. You may not have a knife like this, but you can easily find yourselves a knife. Now, do you want us to teach you how to fight like that? Because that’s what you’re going to have to learn if you want to survive.’

  They surged forward.

  ‘All right, stay back. I’ll show you all, slowly. Watch me.’

  For another ten minutes Lamb himself, and then Bennett and the two corporals, showed them fighting techniques with knives. Then they went on to bayonets.

  He turned to Bennett. ‘Right. Now we’ll see what they can do. Get the bayonets out.’ Bennett barked the command and Valentine tried to translate. The men fumbled and attached their bayonets. A few of them dropped them to the ground in trying to clip them on.

  ‘I think we’ve got our work cut out here, sir.’

  ‘We’ll see. Don’t worry. I’m not going to give them all that bloody “hate and blood training” stuff, Sarnt-Major.’

  ‘Thank God for that, sir. That’s a bloody farce, that is.’

  ‘We’re going to do it the old way. Valentine, ask them if anyone knows how to use a bayonet.’

  Valentine spoke and one of the men who ha
d dropped his bayonet stepped forward. Lamb took his rifle and fixed the weapon’s eighteen-inch, standard sword-type bayonet on to the boss below the end of the barrel, before returning it to the man. The bayonet was almost half as long as the rifle itself. ‘Right, let’s see if he’s as good as his word.’

  He pointed to a spot on a wall where Mays and Bennett had rigged up four sandbags to resemble the head, torso and legs of a man.

  ‘Go on. Attack that. There, my friend, is your German. Kill him.’

  Valentine gave the order and the man assumed something like the ready position before launching himself at the sandbags. Reaching them, he raised his rifle and plunged the bayonet deep into what would have been the unfortunate man’s guts before withdrawing it and stepping back. He turned to Lamb and gave a huge smile.

  ‘Very good. That was good. Now, Sarnt-Major, would you care to show them how we do it in the British army.’

  Bennett took his own rifle, its bayonet already fixed, and, snapping smartly into the ready position, charged at the sandbags, at the same time screaming at the top of his voice so loudly that some of the Greeks flinched. Reaching the dummy, Bennett thrust the bayonet in, close to the heart, and gave it a firm twist to the left before withdrawing it and going back to the ‘ready’.

  The Greeks applauded. Lamb spoke. ‘You see, gentlemen, what you have to do is give it a twist.’ He demonstrated with his hands. ‘You need to mess the bugger up.’ Valentine struggled to translate, but then the Greeks understood and began to nod. ‘Right, who wants to try that?’

  They began to put up their hands.