The two corporals stood in the middle of the road facing the junction, Billy right and I left. In a few moments a car was slowly turning the corner with stiff coloured pennants on both mudguards. Billy waved his disc and I moved my red torch to and fro and shouted ‘Halt!’ The car came to a stand-still and we stepped right and left out of the beams of the headlights, which, in spite of being partly blacked out, were very bright, and walked slowly, each to his appointed door. The two flags were there; but perhaps only the driver was inside . . .
Through the open window I could discern the gold braid and the Knight’s Cross and a white face between. I saluted and said ‘Papier, bitte schön.’ The General, with an officer-to-man smile, reached for his breast pocket, and I opened the door with a jerk (this was the cue for the rest of the party to break cover) and the inside of the car was flooded with light. I then shouted, ‘Hände hoch!’ and with one hand thrust my automatic against the General’s chest — there was a gasp of surprise — flinging the other round his body, and pulling him out of the car. I felt a vigorous blow from his fist and a moment later he was lashing out in the arms of Manoli, and, as there were no passengers, of Antoni P. and Grigori as well. After a brief struggle, and a storm of protest and imprecation in German, the General was securely bound, Manoli’s manacles were on his wrists and he was being hoisted bodily into the back. Manoli and George leapt in on either side; and Strati followed them. The doors were slammed shut and gun barrels were sticking out of the windows. I picked up the General’s hat, which had come off in the struggle, jumped into the General’s empty seat, slammed the door and put his hat on.
Billy was already calmly at the wheel, door shut and engine running. Half a second after I had opened the right-hand door, Billy had wrenched open the left. The driver, alarmed at the sudden chaos, reached for the Luger on his belt. Billy struck him hard over the head with a life preserver, George pulled him out of the car and Billy jumped in, glanced at the petrol gauge, checked the handbrake and found the engine still turned on. George and Antoni Z. carried the driver, temporarily knocked out and bleeding, to the cover of the ditch. (When the two Antonis, Grigori and Niko set off with him — we were to meet on Mount Ida in two days — he was able to walk, but groggily.) Micky and Mitzo had rushed from their stations and suddenly, except for Elias, the whole party was there, leaning into the car or already inside it. Micky was craning through a window, shaking his fist and passionately shouting, ‘Long live freedom! Long live Greece! Long live England!’ and, menacingly, at the General, ‘Down with Germany!’ I begged him to stop, moved by our captive’s look of alarm; there was already a daunting commando dagger at his throat.
A delirious excess of cheers, hugs, slaps on the back, shouts and laughter held us all in its grip for a few seconds. I suddenly noticed the inside light was still on: our very odd group was lit up like a magic lantern; so, as there was no visible switch, I hit it with my pistol-butt; reassuring darkness hid us once more. Billy released the brake and we drove off, exchanging farewells with the two parties remaining on foot. (When the others had left, Micky and Elias would hide their gear, clear up any give-away clues, dust over all signs of strife, then head for Herakleion, and, when the news broke, set helpful rumours flying.) All these doings, which need time to record, had only taken, from the time we signalled to the car, seventy seconds. Everyone had been perfect.
Less than a minute later, from the opposite direction, a convoy was bearing down on us; two trucks full of soldiers sitting with their rifles between their knees, some in steel helmets, some in field caps, rumbled past. Our voices sank to a sober whisper; we had only been just in time. (Where were they heading for, I wondered later. I hoped it was to smoke out that phantom raiding force in the Lasithi mountains.) The General was still dazed. ‘Where is my hat?’ he kept asking; I had to tell him where. In a few minutes we were driving through Knossos and as we approached the Villa Ariadne, the two sentries presented arms, a third, warned by a fourth, raised the striped barrier. They must have been surprised when we drove on; the sentries stamped back to the stand-at-ease. I knelt on the seat, leant over the back and said the words I had been rehearsing as slowly and earnestly as I could: ‘Herr General, I am a British Major. Beside me is a British Captain. The men beside you are Greek patriots. They are good men. I am in command of this unit and you are an honourable prisoner of war. We are taking you away from Crete to Egypt. For you the war is over. I am sorry we had to be so rough. Do everything I say and all will be well.’
This little speech had a strong effect. ‘Sind sie wirklich ein Britischer Major?’ ‘Ja, wirklich, Herr General. Sie haben gar nichts zü fürchten.’ He again bewailed the loss of his hat and I promised to return it. ‘Danke, danke, Herr Major.’ He was still shaken, but improving.
At this point Billy said: ‘Check point ahead.’ I sat down again. Two men — as it might have been us — were waving a red torch in the middle of the road, there was a cry of ‘Halt!’ Billy slowed down slightly. When they saw the flags the two men jumped aside, stood to attention and saluted. I returned it, and Billy accelerated again, murmuring, ‘This is marvellous.’ ‘Herr Major,’ came the voice from behind, ‘where are you taking me?’ ‘To Cairo.’ ‘No, but now?’ ‘To Herakleion.’ There was a pause, then, several keys higher in complete incredulity, ‘TO HERAKLEION?’ ‘Yes. You must understand that we must keep you out of sight. We will make you as comfortable as we can later on.’
By this time houses were becoming denser beside the road and pedestrians and animals frequent, and the glow of booths, taverns and cafés; and soon another red light, a narrowing of the road and a cry of ‘Halt!’ then another. We passed them in the same style as the first, and those that followed. At Fortetza, there was a forbidding wooden barrier as well. Again, the flags sent it sailing respectfully into the air. Soon we were inside the great Venetian city wall; the main street swallowed us up. The Marlin guns, lowered now, were held ready behind the doors.
The General had sunk below window level in a vice-like grip. George’s dagger was still threateningly aimed and when German voices grew loud beside the car, hands were clamped over his mouth. We were held up by a number of manoeuvring and reversing trucks, and soon by a cheerful swarm of soldiers pouring out of the garrison cinema. (It was Saturday night.) Billy calmly and methodically hooted his way through this mob; a swerving cyclist nearly fell off avoiding us. Creeping along, collecting many salutes as the soldiers cleared out of the way, we reached the turn by the Morosini fountain and headed left for the Canea Gate. It was the only way out of the town.
If anything went wrong on the way through, the plan was to drive fast for the Canea Gate, and, if the barrier there was down, charge it and break through, and then, if pursued, fire long bursts out of the back window and the sides and hurl the Mills grenades with short fuses which weighted down all our pockets. (We had plenty of spare magazines for our sub-machine guns and automatics.) Outside the Gate, we stood a chance of getting away. This powerful brand-new Opel must have been the fastest car in the island and Billy was a skilful and imaginative driver. With a long start we could make for the mountains at full speed, get out well before troops from Retimo, warned by telephone, could head us off from the west, send the car spinning down a precipice, and, after concealing the tracks, strike uphill. But, should there be determination en masse to stop us at the Canea Gate we would slew round fast and into the lanes — I had a good idea where, thanks to those wanderings with Micky after dark — leave the General tied and blindfold (‘Remember, General, we have spared your life! No reprisals!’), block the way with the car and make a dash for it. There was a maze of alleyways, walls one could jump, drainpipes to climb, skylights, flat roofs leading from one to another, cellars and drains and culverts — as Manoli and I had discovered during our raid on the harbour — of which the Germans knew nothing. If cornered, we had plenty of grenades and spare ammunition and iron rations. Perhaps, by lying up, and with a bit of luck, there would have been a chance. The town was dotted with friends’ houses and, after all, except for a handful of spies and traitors, the whole city would be on our side.
There was a clear run down the narrow main street to the Canea Gate. But as we approached the great barbican, which the Germans had tightened into a bottleneck with cement anti-tank blocks, there were not only the normal sentries and guards, but a large number of other soldiers in the gateway as well. The one wielding the red torch failed to budge; it looked as though they were going to stop us. Tension in the car rose several degrees. Billy slowed down — we had arranged for this eventuality — cocked his automatic and put it in his lap; mine was already handy; behind, we heard the bolts on the three Marlin guns click back. When we were nearly on top of them and one of the guard was approaching, I put down the window and shouted, ‘Generals Wagen!’
The words ‘Generals Wagen!’ passed peremptorily from mouth to mouth; the torch was lowered just in time. Billy stepped on the accelerator, the soldiers fell back and saluted, the sentries jumped to the present. All this was acknowledged with a gruff goodnight and we drove through. We sailed through the check points (the other inmates of the car counted twenty-two from start to finish) with great smoothness. We passed John Pendlebury’s grave on the left of the road. At last the check points and the long ragged straggle of suburb, were all behind us and we were roaring up the road to Retimo with the headlights striking nothing but rocks and olive groves. Mount Ida soared on our left and sea, just discernible, shone peacefully below.
A mood of riotous jubilation broke out in the car; once more we were all talking, laughing, gesticulating and finally singing at the tops of our voices, and offering each other cigarettes, including the General. They made him as comfortable as they could. I handed his hat back and asked him if he would give his parole not to attempt to escape; to my relief he gave it. I then formally introduced Billy. He had no German and the General no English, so civilities were exchanged in French, not very expert on either side. I then presented Manoli, George and Strati by their Christian names and for a moment the four figures behind all seemed to be formally bowing to each other. A bit later the General leant forward and said, ‘Sagen Sie einmal, Herr Major, was für ein Zweck hat dieses Husarenstück?’ (‘Tell me, Major, what is the object of this hussar-stunt?’) A very awkward question. (We were passing the solitary khan of Yeni Gave, near our first destination; only twenty miles from Herakleion, but, thanks to the bad road, it was already past 11 p.m.) I told the General I would explain it all tomorrow.
We now had no local guide since Yanni’s eclipse but Strati had served in the area as a young policeman and Manoli and I knew it a bit. We drew up at the bottom of a goat-track which, after a few hours’ climb, would end at Anoyeia. We all got out and Manoli unlocked the handcuffs. The General was perturbed when he saw that I was going on with George. (‘You are going to leave me alone with these . . . people?’) I told him the Hauptmann would be in command and that he was under Manoli’s special care. This sounded ambiguous, but there was something in Manoli’s bearing that inspired trust. The party were to lie up outside Anoyeia and wait for us; Manoli and Strati knew who to contact for food and runners, for messages to our nearest wireless stations. I saluted, the General did the same (I was keen on setting this single note of punctilio in our rather bohemian unit). Billy and the General set off uphill, Strati leading, Manoli in the rear with his gun in the crook of his arm.
There was a certain amount of laughter from the slope when at last, after several stalls, the car wobbled off down the road in bottom; I just managed to get the thing along the two miles which led to the beginning of the track that ran down past the hamlet of Heliana to the submarine bay and the tiny island of Peristeri. We left the car conspicuously well out in the road. The floor had been purposely covered with fag-ends of Player’s cigarettes; these clues were reinforced by a usurped Raiding Forces beret (‘Who Dares, Wins’) and an Agatha Christie paperback. We kicked up the pathway, running down it to plant a round Player’s tin, and, further on, a Cadbury’s milk chocolate wrapper. (If only we had had a sailor’s cap . . .) The letter to the German authorities was prominently pinned to the front seat. Then — we couldn’t resist it — we each broke off one of the flags which had served us so well. I gave mine to George who waved them both, saying, ‘Captured standards!’ and shoved them in his sakouli[1] with the steel rods sticking out.
There was no path. It was only five or six miles to Anoyeia for a crow, but three times as far for us; all ravines, cliffs, boulders, undergrowth and thorns. Luckily there was a new moon. The only people we saw all night were two boys with pine torches hunting for eels in a brook. Hailed from afar they put us on the right track. Every hour or so we lay down for a smoke. The night was full of crickets and frogs and nightingales. The snow on Mount Ida glimmered in the sky, and neither of us could quite believe, in this peaceful and empty region, that the night’s doings had really happened. The approach of dawn was announced by the tinkling goat bells of a score of folds waking up in the surrounding foothills and just above us we could see the white houses of Anoyeia spreading like a fortress along a tall blade of rock.
1. [Colourful, woven rucksack.]