In the headquarters he had set up in the Hotel Potomakis in Kalani, Major Baldamus sat back and considered his position.
He had done well in France and his promotion had been rapid, but he was also clever enough to have kept his nose clean without claiming that he was part of a master race. He hadn’t particularly wanted a war but, having got one, he was determined to get the best out of it; especially here on Aeos, where he felt he was ideally suited for the job he’d been given. He spoke excellent Greek, had spent a lot of time as an archaeological student in the islands during the thirties, and had used his money to make sure he did it with a certain amount of aplomb. He was, in fact, a German version of Lieutenant Patullo, whom, oddly enough, he had even once met in the Parthenon Hotel in Athens before the war.
A flight of Messerschmitts had just reached the island to support him and, to maintain them, two more transports loaded with fuel, spares, fitters and riggers. Every public office was already controlled by his men, under the efficient Captain Ehrhardt, and the mayor and the island officials were still under lock and key until he could decide what to do with them. Everything seemed highly satisfactory and he was happy that he had not been obliged to call on the bombers to break the islanders’ will.
He shifted in his chair and lit a cigar. Contemplating the blue smoke with a certain amount of satisfaction, he felt he had a right to be pleased with himself. It had been a bold stroke to take over Aeos so far in advance of the Wehrmacht. It had been captured entirely by airborne troops and, as General Ritsicz had said, could well be a pattern for the future. Because of the speed, with every hour that passed Baldamus’ position grew stronger, and there was no doubt in his mind that eventually the Germans would control the whole of the mainland and the Greek archipelago as well. From the outset of the Balkan campaign, the British and Greek troops had been falling back in the face of strong and determined attacks.
Belgrade and Skoplje were secure now, he’d heard, and the panzers were already pouring into Greece. The British would inevitably have to form a new line near Mount Olympus and the River Aliakman – and then only until the growing German flanking movement in the west compelled a further withdrawal. They hadn’t a chance. They were suffering intensely from bombing, because when Field Marshal List’s 12th Army with twelve first-class divisions and over 800 aircraft had started their advance, the RAF in Greece had possessed only eighty usable machines out of a strength of 150; the rest were already unserviceable on airfields all over the country. Once the panzers were completely through the passes and had seized the Salonika plain to establish fighter bases supported and maintained like his own by transports, there would not be a single British unit that could not come under intense and constant air attack, while in the rear every sector of military organisation, ports and aerodromes could suffer incessant bombing.
Major Baldamus decided he didn’t have a lot to worry about. He had the island nicely wrapped up. The population chiefly lived in the north round Kalani and, since he controlled that and the airstrip at Yanitsa, it seemed his worries were over. Surely there could be only a few more days to hang on. The transports and Messerschmitts were merely the first of the supporting units to arrive and, with the build-up going well, he no longer had any fear of a rising against him because the rest of the island consisted of mere hamlets and groups of farms. Though he could hardly patrol them all, he preferred in any case to keep his people close together. It was one of the first principles of soldiering and, since Major Baldamus was rather out on a limb on Aeos, he considered it wiser to avoid trouble.
It was while he was in this euphoric state that Captain Ehrhardt appeared. Ehrhardt was a small man, with a brown wrinkled face. His uniform was dusty and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Strapped and buckled like a carthorse in his equipment, he presented a perfect picture of a tough German fighting man. As he laid the signal he was carrying on Baldamus’ desk, he gave a slow grin at the reaction he knew it would produce.
Baldamus looked at the sheet of paper with a lazy eye, still full of thoughts on his own future. Then, as he read the words, he sat bolt upright and stared at his second-incommand with startled blue eyes, his handsome face full of consternation.
‘Another British launch?’ he said.
‘Yes, Herr Major.’
‘Like the one the Italians drove ashore near Cape Annoyia?’
‘Yes, Herr Major. It’s just reached Iros on its way north. It seems we have sympathisers there who have passed on the information.’
Baldamus stared again at the signal. ‘But heading north?’ He gazed at Captain Ehrhardt, frowning. ‘What are they after?’
‘Perhaps,’ Ehrhardt said, ‘they’re on their way to look for survivors from the other one. Though we’ve seen no sign of them. I gather the boat’s a total wreck – holed forward, engines wrecked, underwater gear buckled. The islanders seem to have been poking around it already because the dead have been buried and everything movable’s been pinched. Still—’ he shrugged ‘—perhaps the British think somebody escaped.’
Baldamus stared at the signal again then he grinned. ‘If another of those boats is on its way,’ he said, ‘then we might as well collect that one too. We could have our own fleet. I’d like to be an admiral. Inform the Luftwaffe to look out for it.’
He smiled, sat back and drew on his cigar again. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he went on, ‘I understand there were originally three of these boats – all belonging to Spiro Panyioti. What a feather in our caps it would be if we had them all. We could use them for evening drinks, Ehrhardt, and trips round the island. One for me, one for you, and one for the Luftwaffe. Since the war’s going our way, we might as well enjoy it.’
It was raining again as Claudia turned north and Docherty stuck his head out of the engine room. ‘Roll on my twelve,’ he said. ‘I thought it was always bloody fine in the Med.’
They headed north all night, all of them quiet and depressed by the bombing of Iros. They still had a long way to go and Shaw wanted to cover it slowly to conserve fuel. There were so many islands, he had to pick his way between them in the dark, busy at the chart table all the way.
As daylight came the next morning, the islands multiplied, each bare hill and blue-grey cliff appearing from behind the last boulder-strewn headland. Beyond them were more leagues of ruffled sea the colour of delphiniums, and in the distance more green headlands, each hazier than the one in front. Despite the islands, however, the sea appeared blank and empty and vast. With the Germans on the march, the islanders were staying ashore for safety and there wasn’t a boat to be seen.
After Iros, Cotton was keenly aware of a sense of danger surrounding them. With every beat of the engines, every turn of the screws, they were getting closer to the Germans, and he took to studying himself to see if he was afraid. He was pleased to find he wasn’t.
The sky was free of clouds as the boat knifed across a sea that looked like a dark silk sheet. They had rounded Xiros and Kafoulos and were heading directly towards Aeos. To the north they could still occasionally hear the distant thud-thud of guns, even above the beat of the engines.
‘Army’s having itself its usual happy time,’ Patullo said.
‘Poor buggers,’ Shaw growled.
There was also the constant sound of aircraft, a low distant throbbing hum in the sky that they knew meant danger to the unprotected army, and disaster to themselves if it appeared overhead.
‘Aeroplanes,’ Shaw said.
‘They won’t be British,’ Patullo commented.
‘No.’
‘Better get the Flit gun ready.’
Then Patullo pointed towards a shadowy shape between two other islands.
‘That’s it,’ he said.
‘We’ll increase the revs,’ Shaw said. ‘Turn the wick up a bit, Howard. And let’s have a message off, operator, to say we’ve arrived.’
He turned to bend over the chart with Patullo. ‘Here we are,’ Patullo said, jabbing with his finger. ‘Approaching Cape Annoyia. Kharasso Bay’s on one side of it and Xiloparissia Bay’s on the other.’ He gestured ahead. ‘That’s Cape Asigonia, the easternmost tip of the island, and that—’ his arm moved again ‘—that’s Cape Kastamanitsa, the southernmost tip.’
‘What about towns?’
‘Fishing village here, the other side of Xiloparissia Bay – Ay Yithion’s the name. There are two more – here and here – Skoinia and Kaessos. The capital’s in the north across this plain. The air strip at Yanitsa’s just to the south of it.’
There was a pause then Patullo went on, sounding faintly depressed. ‘Let’s hope the islanders’ views are the same as ours,’ he said. ‘Greeks enjoy arguing, whether it’s about God, that part of Macedonia which used to be Greek, or their own eternal cunning, and they’re very sensitive about politics. Bodies are left about stabbed like colanders every time the prime minister makes a speech. Thank God nobody but us and Iros knows much about the bombing there.’
An hour later they were edging in to their landfall. To port, just beyond Cape Annoyia, they could see a small bay surrounded by houses and a curving stone wall lined with masts.
‘Is that it?’ Gully asked.
‘Yes,’ Cotton said.
They could see Shaw studying the island through his glasses. Then he bent and called down to Howard on the wheel.
‘Starboard,’ he said. ‘Let’s take a look at Xiloparissia Bay. If we can get straight in there, we might just as well.’
As they approached, the water shelved so that they could peer into water, only a few fathoms deep, that was teeming with fish in the blue-green light. The sea clattered against the rocks and the breeze came through a gap in the hills towards them.
‘Keep your eyes skinned,’ Patullo warned.
They edged in closer, their eyes on the sky, Patullo studying the bay with his glasses. It was narrow, the shore overhung by trees; from the narrow beach fringed with rocks, the coast rose steeply in a slab-sided hill covered with boulders and foliage to a high ridge.
Then Shaw spoke. ‘By God, there she is!’ he said.
He cut the engines while they were still a long way out, but it was just possible to see the shape of a boat lying bow-on to a beach under the cliffs at the eastern side of the bay. She looked as if she’d been badly hurt, and was blackened and charred as if she’d been on fire. Her mast was down and there were holes in the hull and the wheelhouse windows, and ropes hung loosely over the side.
Cotton stared at her, his heart thudding suddenly in his throat. Shaw’s voice, quiet and unafraid, made him jump.
‘I think we’ll go in there and have a look at her,’ he said and, as Howard edged the throttles forward, Claudia began to move ahead again.
Even before they had entered the inlet, the sound of the engines running at low revs began to reverberate from the surrounding cliffs. Xiloparissia Bay was narrow – indeed the whole coast of Aeos just here was full of long tapering bays cut off from each other by high cliffs and half hidden by trees that grew down to the water’s edge. The popple of the engines grew louder as the bay bounced the sound back and they were all busily staring at the shore when Cotton lifted his head. The engine note seemed to have changed, as if it were echoing off the cliff more noisily than before. It seemed to grow louder even as he listened, and suddenly he knew why.
‘Aircraft!’ he yelled, and dived for the 20mm.
Coward was already on the starboard Lewis, swinging it quickly, while Patullo took the wheel to let Howard leap across the wheelhouse for the port gun.
The aircraft were Messerschmitts and they came over the cliffs at full speed, howling overhead and heading south. At first, it seemed as if they’d missed Claudia, but then, when they were about a mile out to sea, Cotton saw them swing in a wide arc and begin to come back. Remembering how much petrol they were carrying in drums on the deck, he found himself cataloguing and analysing his thoughts as he waited in grim fatalism. One shell into their deck cargo and there’d be such a bloody bang they’d all have wings.
‘They’ve seen us!’ Shaw yelled. ‘Get a message off, operator, that we’re being attacked!’
As Patullo opened the throttles, Claudia’s bow lifted and she seemed to leap across the water, rolling alarmingly on her beam ends as he dragged at the wheel. The wake trailed behind like an enormous paying-off pennant, white across the dark waters, then they had swung round and were hurtling out of Xiloparissia Bay. The Messerschmitts were heading directly towards them now, low over the water, and Cotton saw the snaking lines of tracer sliding over the masthead and heard bangs behind him.
It was hopeless running for the open sea. They would have been destroyed in no time, and Shaw decided to make for the shelter of the cliffs again. In one of the narrow bays, it would be almost impossible to hit them.
Take her in there,’ he yelled, pointing, and as Patullo swung the wheel, Claudia heeled over once more.
The Messerschmitts were coming round again now and Cotton felt the padded rests of the 20mm shudder against his shoulders almost without being aware of pressing the trigger.
‘Docherty!’ he screamed.
Even as the gun stopped, the drum empty, he saw a piece fly off the leading Messerschmitt, then a puff of smoke, and he realised he’d hit it.
As the Messerschmitt swung away, losing height, to disappear over the cliffs, he became aware of Gully, the carpenter, his cap over one ear, scrambling out of sight beneath the platform that had been built for the 20mm. The Lewises were going and Shaw, his head out of the wheelhouse hatch, was yelling at Patullo.
Take her into Kharasso,’ he was roaring. Take her in!’
‘Docherty!’ Cotton shouted furiously. ‘Bring us another drum!’
But Docherty seemed to have disappeared and it was Bisset who appeared alongside him with the fresh ammunition. As he reached for it, Cotton saw a line of small explosions coming across the sea as the second Messerschimitt’s cannon shells struck the surface. He was quite certain he was in the direct line of fire but they struck the boat forward of where he was standing. He was still struggling with the fresh drum when there was a crash behind him and, as he turned, he saw splinters fly from the wheelhouse roof. The radio direction finder jumped from the deckhead as if it had been ejected by a spring, and lifted up into the air in a clean arc to fall astern.
For a moment, the atmosphere seemed to be full of dust and flying fragments and he saw Shaw disappear through the hatch. The Messerschmitt’s nose lifted and a fresh line of explosions jumped across the wheelhouse roof. Coward, who was aiming the starboard Lewis at the aeroplane, fell backwards. His head had gone and his body formed a curving arc through the air as it dropped into the sea alongside. Then Cotton saw it tumbling and rolling in the reddened foam of the wash as they swept past.
Claudia was heading into the bay at full speed and it was as the Messerschmitts disappeared and he lifted his head that Cotton realised the wheelhouse was full of gaping holes.
‘Christ!’ he said.
Gully was still crouching under the 20mm, his face grey, yelling with fright. Docherty appeared at last through the engine-room door. He seemed to be staggering as if he were blind and was covered with blood, and it suddenly dawned on Cotton that the boat was out of control. It was pounding over the ripple of the sea in a series of small leaps and, with the wheelhouse roof reduced to splintered matchwood, it was more than likely that Shaw had been hit, and probably Patullo.
He couldn’t see Howard at the port gun, and acting on an impulse, since there seemed to be no more Messerschmitts, he jumped from the 20mm platform, crossed the well deck at a bound and was running across the engine-room deckhead without being aware how he got there.
Claudia was still heading into the bay in a wide curve that confirmed his belief that no one was in control. He had a brief impression of a steep cliff which seemed to run the whole length of this end of the island and had towered above Xiloparissia Bay, lifting high above them – even out of sight. Then they were heading for a small clump of jagged rocks that protruded from the sea, at a speed that took his breath away, and he saw trees on the shore to his right and a sharply shelving rocky beach just ahead. He almost fell into the wheelhouse, stumbling over something that brought him to his knees.
Scrambling to his feet, he wrenched at the wheel. The boat passed the rocks so close the bow wave covered them with a sheet of water, then as he dragged the throttles back and put the telegraphs to neutral, the engines died, and Claudia’s bow, high out of the water with her speed, dropped so that she halted like a charging wild animal brought to a stop by a heavy bullet and began to wallow as the following wake lifted her stern. As the bow wave slopped on to her deck, Cotton put her full astern, but he was already too late and the boat seemed to leap into the air as she touched the rocks fringing the shore. He heard the crashing and splintering of timber and the thunderous clangour of disturbed petrol drums; then things seemed to start jumping off the wheelhouse all round him. He was flung forward against the wheel, then to starboard. As the boat finally came to rest on her port side, the wheelhouse glass, broken by the shells from the aircraft and wrenched out of true, fell out of the windows on top of him, and a gout of water, which had shot up alongside, came down on the deck, drenching him as it slopped through the empty frames. The Packards were still screaming, the din coming through the open engine-room door like a wild animal in pain. Gasping, dazed, uncertain what had happened, he heard them die abruptly and realised that someone in addition to himself was alive enough to have cut them.
As everything became still, he dragged himself upright and, looking through the broken windscreen, saw that Claudia was lying motionless at an angle of forty-five degrees with her nose on the western end of the beach close to the trees. The tip of the mast with the torn ensign on it was among the lower branches and the wheelhouse seemed to be littered with broken glass and splintered wood.
Staring round him angrily, he turned to look for help and for the first time realised that the wheelhouse was full of blood. Shaw was lying head-down on the steps that lifted to the port door and hatch, and he remembered stumbling and realised he must have tripped over him. Patullo was tumbled in a heap just behind him where he’d been flung, and, as he turned, Cotton saw a pair of feet through the window, on a level with his eye and realised they must belong to Howard.
‘Christ,’ he breathed in awed tones, shocked by the fury of all the killing. ‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’