The signal was in code and began with the instruction that it was to be deciphered only by an officer of the rank of major or above. Baldamus’ eyebrows lifted and he vanished into his office, closed the door and started to work. When he’d finished, he reappeared and called for Ehrhardt.
‘What’s the state of our transport, Ehrhardt?’ he demanded.
‘Not very good,’ Ehrhardt said. ‘Consists mostly of cars.’
‘Lorries?’
‘Five.’
‘We need sixteen.’
Ehrhardt grinned. ‘I doubt if there are sixteen lorries on the whole island,’ he said.
‘There’d better be.’
‘What are they needed for?’
‘You’ll see when the time comes. Arrange for another eleven to be commandeered. I want them on the airfield by tomorrow evening.’
Ehrhardt scratched his head. ‘Where the hell am I going to get another eleven serviceable lorries?’
‘You’d better seek divine guidance.’ Baldamus smiled. ‘Because I’ve had instructions that they’re to be ready by first darkness tomorrow night. See to it, Ehrhardt. Send your men round the villages. I think we ought to be able to produce them if we look hard enough. After all, this island was being developed as a holiday area for exhausted Greek millionaires, and Panyioti owned that damned great museum of a place at Xinthos. I’ve had a look at it. It’s full of furniture, so there must have been lorries to carry it there.’ Baldamus’ voice was gentle but Ehrhardt knew that by hook or by crook he would somehow produce the eleven extra vehicles.
‘I wouldn’t like to guarantee that they’ll all be the same, Herr Major,’ he pointed out. ‘Some will be open. Some might even be pantechnicons.’
‘I don’t think anyone will argue,’ Baldamus said. ‘We have to move approximately two hundred and fifty men at great speed in the dark.’
‘Why?’
‘Never mind why. And since we’ve been talking about that residence of Panyioti’s, we’ll inspect it as billeting accommodation. Our two hundred and fifty men have to be housed.’
‘We could use tents.’
‘No tents.’
‘There are huts on the airfield.’
‘Not on the airfield.’
‘A hotel in Kalani?’
‘Not in Kalani, either.’ Baldamus’ voice grew a little firmer because he knew now what General Ritsicz had meant when he’d talked about the Panyioti residence. ‘I think Panyioti’s palace is handy both for the city and the airstrip. See to it, will you, Ehrhardt?’
It was Cotton who did the watch that night. Someone had to, because he didn’t want the Germans to return and catch them asleep, and despite the climb he’d made with Bisset and the girl, he didn’t feel tired and knew that the next few days were going to take a lot out of Docherty and the others. He had no skill with tools himself and it would be Docherty, helped by Kitcat, who would have to reassemble the engines; and Gully and Bisset – who claimed some skill as a carpenter – who would have to work on the hull. All Cotton could do would be tea boy, look-out and general dogsbody.
He could hear them all arguing through the open hatch of the forecastle, the old boring forecastle argument he’d heard hundreds of times in HM ships.
‘She did,’ Docherty said.
‘She didn’t,’ Gully retorted.
‘She bloody did, you know.’
‘She bloody didn’t.’
He wondered who they were talking about.
‘Disarmed, disrobed and de-bloody-flowered in one hour flat,’ Docherty insisted. ‘I was always good at it. Left ’and behind her back so that when you pushed her down it was underneath. Her right in your left and what have you got?’
‘Rape.’ Bisset’s voice sounded bored.
Docherty chuckled. ‘Well, you’ve got one spare hand,’ he said. ‘And that’s a distinct advantage. You’d be surprised how many times it worked. Anyway, half the time they’re saying “no” when they mean “yes”.’
‘What happens when they mean “no”?’
‘Well, that’s bloody hard luck. Sometimes I used to ask ’em: “Do you rape easily?” I got a few clouts across the kisser, but I got a few rapes too.’
‘Didn’t you ever make a mistake?’ Kitcat asked.
‘Plenty of times. But I got a lot of birds as well.’
Cotton couldn’t understand how they could be so indifferent with Howard probably dying, then he realised it was a sort of defence mechanism that allowed them to shut their minds to suffering and concentrate simply on being alive.
‘It’s them books,’ Gully was saying. ‘That No Orchids and that Fig Leaves Forbidden thing you got down there. They get you worked up. You go on the way you are, you’ll end up like the last rose of summer.’
Cotton, who’d been brought up as a good church-goer with high moral beliefs, listened to them with disgust. Then, guiltily, he found himself thinking of a girl he’d been with the last time he’d been on leave in London. She’d had pale-blue veins in the porcelain whiteness of her breasts, he’d noticed, but her breath had smelled of whisky and there’d been a picture of a soldier in uniform on the mantelpiece.
Gully and Docherty were talking now about their war experiences, each trying to horrify the other.
‘When they bombed Liverpool,’ Gully said, ‘you could scrape ’em off the walls.’
‘All the time I was in the drink,’ Docherty countered, ‘this foot in the grey sock kept bobbing against my bloody ’ead.’
Bisset’s voice came, weary and bored. ‘This grisly ritual of shocking each other with horror stories takes some talent for lying, you know. And you two haven’t got it.’
‘Who’s a liar?’ Gully said.
‘I dare bet you are. And so bloody boring you give a chap a headache.’
‘You can chew my starboard nipple,’ Docherty said cheerfully, then, as the voices died, Cotton heard Gully’s battered concertina and his breathy voice singing in a low monotone.
‘Roses round the door, kids upon the floor—’
Cotton sighed. For the first time in his service career, he began to see what command was all about. He’d often thought of ships’ captains as privileged people spoiled by too much attention and too much spare time, but suddenly he realised why. They needed their time for thinking. Cotton had become the leader of the little group of men struggling for survival, not by order of the Admiralty or by reason of superior intellect or training, but simply because he’d been the only one with any ideas about self-preservation. The others had accepted his leadership without question and now he was realising what a lonely position he’d created for himself. No wonder the navy revered Nelson like a saint. Slight, tough, strong-willed, yet emotional as an actress, he knew exactly what moved men to perform miracles. Cotton wished he did.
Eventually, the muttering below died away and while the others slept he went to the captain’s cabin to check that Howard was all right. His breathing seemed to be quieter now, and Cotton began to think he might survive if they could only get him to where he could receive treatment. As he stared down at him, Howard opened his eyes. ‘Wotcher, Royal,’ he said.
‘Go to sleep,’ Cotton said. ‘It’ll be all right.’
Howard’s head nodded weakly. ‘Hurts a bit,’ he said. ‘What happened to Coward?’
‘He’s all right,’ Cotton lied. ‘Tomorrow we’re going to try to get you to a quack.’
‘Right.’ Howard nodded and slid away again into a shallow sleep.
Cotton sighed, wishing he hadn’t so much to think about. Climbing on deck, he drained the water tank into the empty rum jar the Germans had left and did anything else he could find to do. Then he completed the log, stating in simple terms – because he wasn’t capable of more – exactly what had happened to Loukia’s crew, how he had decided to take over Loukia in place of Claudia, and everything that had happened between him and Petrakis.
It rained soon after midnight and for the rest of the night he sat in the shattered wheelhouse staring at the sky and nursing the tommy-gun as he listened to the bassooning of the frogs in the stream and the high creak of the cicadas. At the back of his mind there was a nagging worry. He wasn’t quite sure what it was but it remained there all night. It was like something he was trying to grasp but couldn’t quite find in the darkness.
He was still sitting in the wheelhouse when he heard the first aircraft of the new day to the north. It sounded louder than before, as if it were not far from the island, and he noticed the muttering of guns from the mainland had begun again.
It stopped raining as the first faint colours of the morning came in the east and, going below, he made tea for the others. Gully sipped it warily.
‘Tastes like it’s been made outa shellac,’ he said.
He looked grubby and unwholesome and Cotton wondered why God had had it in for him so, to land him with a pair like Gully and Docherty.
Docherty yawned. ‘I was just dreaming about my bird,’ he said. ‘I was making a bloody good job of it too.’
Tve forgotten what it’s like to have a bird,’ Gully observed. ‘I won’t know what to do next time.’
‘It’s like riding a bike,’ Docherty pointed out cheerfully. ‘It all comes back when you get on.’ He paused, scratching his head, his eyes far away. ‘My bird was the wife of a corporal of Marines.’ He looked pointedly at Cotton, his face full of malicious glee. ‘Dim bastard, like most Joeys. I met her in a pub. Had a big bed, she did.
‘The corporal bought it for himself, only she was more often in it with me than him, see. Welsh, she was, and she had the nicest tits and legs you ever see. She was sitting on the bed starkers, all white and pink with green eyes, just taking off her stockings and looking at me like they do. You know – with her tongue going over lips—’ He gave a shudder and groaned. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said. ‘Why did I have to wake up?’
The light was increasing as Cotton returned on deck, and the day was spreading from the sea in long pale fingers into the heavens like violet ink rising through the veins of a tulip. Then he realised that above the rumble of artillery to the north he could also hear the low thud of an engine.
Terrified that they’d been caught, he dived below and got the others moving. They were still struggling to get Howard out of the captain’s cabin when a caique nosed round the headland. Standing on the bow was a small figure that was quite clearly Annoula Akoumianakis. Cotton climbed to the deck, Docherty just behind him, and as the others joined them another caique appeared. They were small vessels – one brilliant red, the other a blistering blue – sloop-rigged, low-waisted, with clipper bows and rounded sterns. There were fishing nets on the deck and they were both low in the water.
As they edged between the rocks and nosed slowly towards Claudia, he saw there were several men on board, apparently led by the captain of the electric-blue vessel. The girl was waving, proud of herself, and, as she gave Cotton a special smile, he found he was pleased to see her and glad she’d forgotten the dislike she’d felt for him the previous day.
This is Dendras Varvara,’ she said, indicating the captain of the blue caique, a stout, elderly man in a striped jersey. She pointed to a grave-faced, shock-haired young man on the other boat. This is Athanasios, his son. They have come to help. They will take your wounded man to Ay Yithion.’
Cotton grinned, delighted and relieved at this first sign of friendliness.
‘Thank you, Kapetáne,’ he said.
The old man spoke a harsh unfamiliar Greek that was hard to understand at first. ‘She is a good child, this one,’ he said, slapping the girl’s behind. ‘May she prosper.’ He nodded towards the wrecked Claudia. That is a sad sight, my son.’
He offered a bottle of raki which they passed round. ‘Eviva,’ Varvara said. ‘One should always start the day with a drink.’
His son was watching the sea. He seemed nervous. ‘We came early,’ he said. ‘Before the Germans are out.’
‘What Germans?’ Cotton asked.
‘Two boats from Kalani have been armed,’ the young man said. They are going to patrol the coast.’
‘E-boats?’
‘No.’ The older Varvara shook his head. ‘Just caiques. Fast caiques. You’ll need to post a look-out.’
He turned to one of his crew, a boy no more than fourteen with ragged trousers and shirt, and pointed to the end of the promotory.
‘He’ll keep watch,’ he said as the boy climbed ashore. ‘They start their patrol today. If they come, we drop everything and head out to sea. We’re fishing, if they ask. No one’s said we mustn’t – only that we have to report.’
They didn’t waste any more time. The two boats, their diesel engines thumping and filling the air with fumes, edged nearer. Docherty unwillingly stripped off his clothes and, as he stood in a ragged pair of underpants, they began to festoon him with the diving equipment – the helmet and goggles, the counterlung and absorbent canister and the gas cylinders. He gave them a nervous grin as he adjusted the canvas straps between his legs.
‘I hope nothing goes wrong,’ he said, ‘or I’ll be no bloody good to the birds.’
‘Can you work it?’ Cotton asked.
‘I think so. Christ, I hope so! I don’t fancy floating head downwards under water.’
They attached the lead weights to the harness and he thrust his feet into the heavy boots.
‘I’ll come down and help you,’ Cotton offered.
‘How you going to breathe?’
‘I’ve got lungs.’
They had already attached a heaving line to one of the blades of the propeller and, as Bisset manoeuvred the dinghy against the stern of Claudia, Docherty hung a pair of pliers, a heavy spanner and a hammer round his neck with lengths of fishing line, and began to march into the water. When it was up to his chest, he hesitated so that Cotton began to wonder if he was going to be able to do it, then he waved and vanished abruptly beneath Claudia’s stern. When he emerged, the water streaming from his hair, he held a split pin in his fingers. He seemed excited suddenly. ‘Hang on to that,’ he said. ‘We ain’t got any spares. Now for the nut.’
Knowing there would be little he could do later when the real work started, Cotton borrowed a spanner from Varvara and, lungs bursting, head throbbing, watched Docherty working underwater at the nut until he had to surface.
‘I think it’s moving,’ he said.
Eventually, his fingers cut, his shoulders scraped and bleeding, Docherty came up with the castellated nut in his hand. He handed it to Bisset and reached for a hammer.
‘Now for the prop,’ he said. ‘I’ll need a hand. We’ve not got to lose the key.’
Cotton was about to follow Docherty again when he felt a hand on his arm. Old Varvara was holding a length of rubber tubing.
‘One end in the mouth,’ he said. ‘The other above water. With cotton waste in the nostrils you can breathe.’
Cotton smiled and, attaching one end of the pipe to a cork float from the caique, he put the other in his mouth and went down after Docherty. Between them, they began to attack the propeller. Gasping and spluttering, Cotton shot to the surface with it already moving. Docherty followed.
‘One more go,’ he said.
This time the propeller moved more quickly than they’d expected and Cotton saw it drop away through the shining water. The heaving line Docherty had attached to it jerked taut and, just before he burst to the surface, gasping, Cotton saw the propeller swinging gently on the end of it just above the sea bed.
Docherty appeared alongside him, grinning. ‘I got the key,’ he gasped. ‘Haul her in.’
Bisset heaved the big bronze propeller into the dinghy, and they stared at it eagerly, indifferent in their excitement to the kink in one of the blades. Docherty’s new enthusiasm was infectious, and he stared red-eyed at Cotton and Kitcat and grinned.
The younger Varvara was looking at his watch now and his father was staring out towards the sea. As they did so, the boy they’d posted on the headland whistled and pointed.
‘The Germans!’ the old man said.
Bundling everything into the dinghy, they pulled it ashore and carried it up the beach to the trees. The caiques were already under way and, as they passed the rocks in the entrance to the bay, the crews started throwing nets over the side. From the slope above the boat, Cotton watched carefully through the trees. Annoula was beside him, pressed close against him by Bisset who was crouching on the other side of her. Her body was soft and warm against Cotton and, as he turned to look at her, he saw her eyes flicker away, as if she’d been studying his face.
As they watched, they heard the thump of an engine and a moment later, the two big caiques appeared round the point. They were fast-looking boats, each with a small wheelhouse aft and a stern-mounted machine-gun. They stopped alongside the Varvaras’ boats and they could hear the shouts across the water. Old Varvara offered a bottle, and they saw one of the Germans studying Claudia with a pair of binoculars. But they seemed satisfied that she was a complete wreck and eventually they chugged off again.
The blue caique came slowly into the harbour once more.
They said they’d try and tow her off when it’s all over,’ Varvara said, as he casually tossed a line over Claudia’s stern cleat and cut the engine.
‘When what’s all over?’
‘They didn’t say. They seemed very security conscious. I expect they’ve got something unpleasant up their sleeves.’ Varvara frowned. ‘It goes badly on the mainland,’ he went on. ‘Yugoslavia surrendered yesterday and the German wireless said the British intend to leave Greece.’
The news, the first they’d heard since they’d arrived, was depressing to say the least. Evacuation was bad enough but an unsuccessful evacuation was worse.
‘What about us?’ Cotton asked.
Varvara laughed. ‘They think you were picked up. They thought there must have been two launches.’ He gestured. ‘Now we will take your injured man. It is much better this way than carrying him up the cliffs.’
By the time they’d transferred Howard’s stretcher to the blue caique, the boy who had acted as look-out had climbed down to the boat.
‘We shall keep him aboard until evening,’ Varvara said as Cotton took a last look at the wounded man. ‘He’s safe with us.’
‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am,’ Cotton said and the old man held up his hand.
‘You do not need to. It is balm to my soul to hear our beautiful language in the mouth of a foreigner. You speak it well. There are not many English who speak Greek.’
As he climbed back aboard the caique, he passed across canvas, nails, screws, oakum, grease and tallow. ‘You will need these,’ he said. He reached into the wheelhouse and produced a basket of fruit, rock bread, onions and dried fish. Candles, a lantern, a tin of paraffin and a rubber-covered torch followed, and finally he grinned and dug out a bottle which he tossed to Cotton.
‘Raki,’ he ended. ‘Doubtless it will be of use.’
Putting the engine astern, he waved and chugged out of the bay to join his son before they both thumped off slowly round the headland.
Cotton stood watching them for a minute or two, unbelievably thankful to have got rid of the responsibility for Howard. The morning was already full of heat and the air seemed full of gold, with the sparkle of waves on rocks, and beyond that the blue-green haze of the sea. For a moment, his mind was full of thoughts. He turned to the girl.
‘Get the donkey,’ he said. ‘We’ll start moving over to Xiloparissia Bay straight away.’