Iain Gale - Jackals’ Revenge

Hallam yelled back. ‘No fault of mine, Lamb. I told you, I’m no sailor. I did my level best.’

Lamb swore. Of course the man was no sailor, he was a cavalryman. But then neither was he. Another two hours and the mist began to lift and Lamb realised that without it they were sitting ducks for the Luftwaffe.

There was still no sign of the convoy and he wondered how far they were from Crete. The sea was calmer now, but his head was reeling with the motion of the boat. So much so in fact that he was not sure, later, whether he had heard the noise first or seen the black speck in the sky. It was Eadie, though, who shouted first. ‘Aircraft. Get down.’

Lamb stared at the approaching black dot. It was hopeless. In a few seconds the fighter would be upon them, and then it would just be a matter of time. For all their Lewis guns they were defenceless against an Me109, and God knew what other planes were close behind it. And then, in a split second, he had it.

He looked around. How many of them were up top? About half his men and a good dozen of the hussars, including Captain Hallam. The British civilians had chosen to take their chances in the hold. On the deck, though, was a party of Greek civilians on whom Hallam had taken pity at the last minute before they set sail.

He yelled. ‘All you men, down below. Now. All of you.’

There was a frantic scramble. Still the plane was a black dot, but it was getting bigger with every second. The men threw themselves down the hatches and Lamb turned to the Greeks. Hallam saw him. ‘Lamb?’

He shouted back. ‘Down. Get in the hold.’

Not questioning him, the cavalryman slipped down the narrow ladder and was gone just as Lamb began to speak. ‘All of you.’ He had no Greek, he gestured. A waving gesture. Desperate. What to say? Where was Valentine? He looked into the sky. The plane was almost above them now. Lamb flung himself into the top of the hatch and collided with Valentine, who was climbing out on to the deck, his head and shoulders covered with a black scarf. He brushed past Lamb, then turned and spoke quickly in Greek to the women, as Lamb ducked into the hatch.

The Messerschmidt fighter came in over the mast and as it did so it dropped its height and swooped down over the little boat. Lamb, his head just below the opening, froze. He saw Valentine, sitting alongside the Greek women, his head still covered in the scarf.

Obeying Valentine to the letter, the women in the front looked up and waved. Valentine too. The plane passed and Lamb watched it go. But then, to his horror, he saw the plane bank and then turn. It was returning now, diving straight towards them at greater speed, and he thought, This is it. You are going into your attack dive. On it came, and any second he waited for the machine-guns to open fire. But instead the pilot rolled his wings and as he passed them came close enough so that they could see him wave back. Then, as Lamb watched the German fighter turn tail and run, he pushed up through the hatch, his feet slipping on the steps, and found Valentine. ‘Valentine, you’re a bloody marvel. You had the same idea. Did you see him?’

‘Yes, sir. Only too pleased to help. It’s easier if you speak the lingo.’

‘Well, we’d better keep an eye out. He may have bought it but I’m not convinced that he won’t be back with some of his mates.’

However, another two hours came and went and neither the fighter nor any of his mates returned.

The sun was high in a cloudless sky now and Lamb leant against the painted rail of the ship’s forward deck and peered at the sight that was gradually unfolding before him. There were other men at the rail now, pointing and chattering, as yard by precious yard, across the azure sea, the coast of Crete drew closer. What had first been merely the line of a land mass soon became an island and Lamb was able to make out a town with whitewashed houses. He saw lush avenues of green, poplars and lemon trees, and imposing larger villas. On the slopes behind the town endless rows of olive groves stood in knotted groups amid the vineyards. He could see the quay now, already a mass of ships, men and material. In the distance, beyond the White Mountains, the rising sun pushed higher in the sky with a crimson light – a surreal, theatrical backdrop to this scene of ethereal beauty. Lamb was aware of a presence to his right. Charles Eadie, puffing on a heavily scented cigarette.

‘Pretty sight, sir, isn’t it?’

‘Very pretty, Charles. Just like a picture postcard. You know I’ve always wanted to visit the Mediterranean islands. Ever since I was a boy. Must have been all that Homer at school.’

Eadie laughed. ‘Oh yes, the Greek myths, sir. Odysseus and all that stuff. My favourite was the one about the Cyclops. You know that giant of a chap who lives in the cave and only has one eye.’

‘And ends up by eating half of Odysseus’ crew before he’s killed. Yes, I think that’s one of mine too. I wonder how many of our lot have got away from Greece to here. There seem to be a hell of a lot of ships in the harbour.’

‘I expect we’ll be off to Alex soon, sir, anyway, won’t we? You never know, you might be able to get a bit of sightseeing in. You know, ancient ruins and all that.’

‘Yes. I believe the palace of Knossos is rather special. They’ve been digging it up for years. Some English professor.’

They were suddenly conscious at that same moment of a humming noise and both knew instantly what it was as it built above them in the sky. Lamb shouted, ‘Aircraft, get down,’ and instinctively every one of the men and women on board the Andromeda cowered and sheltered their heads with their hands, waiting for the scream of the siren as the Stukas fell upon them. But none came. Instead, the noise passed over them. Lamb raised his head and saw silhouetted against the brightening sky the shape of two Hurricanes, bearing the tricolour target roundels of the RAF, which as they passed over the ships off the coast tipped their wings from side to side in salute.

‘Thank God, sir. They’re British. I never thought I’d feel safe again.’

‘Well, I shouldn’t depend on feeling that way for too long, Charles. It’s my honest opinion that what just flew over our heads might well be the entire air defence capability of this island.’

The ship drew closer to the island and as it did so Lamb was quickly aware that his vision of Eden was not quite as serene as it might at first have seemed. Gazing at the clear blue waters near the shore he could now make out that one of the ships which he had presumed to be riding at anchor was actually tilted at an awkward angle. Her bridge had been blown away and there was a huge gaping hole in her forward deck. He looked to his right and saw another wreck, a tanker. Squinting, he was able to make out the lettering on her hull: Eleanora Maersk . There was smoke coming from her decks and now and then he saw a lick of flame. There were other ships too: half-submerged Royal Navy vessels, caiques and smaller boats, funnels and masts protruding from the water and debris. He stared down as they passed by one of the hulks and saw that what he had presumed to be driftwood was in fact a dead body, bloated and floating face down. He realised that the sea was full of them and that there was nothing that could be done to clear them. As they drew closer the smell which had begun to permeate the air of burnt metal and wood, cordite and oil grew stronger and he felt at first just nauseous, then suddenly cold and filled with a sense of foreboding. Prompted by Eadie, his schoolboy Greek mythology came back to him again and for an instant he thought of Charon, ferrying the dead in his boat across the river Styx to Hades.

He turned to Eadie. ‘I say, Charles, you haven’t got one of those fags to hand, have you?’