7

In the following days they did what they could to prepare for the Stukas, and warned the other islands that they might be raided. But it seemed extremely unlikely that Simi would be the Germans’ target for they still did not appear to know that the SBS were on the island.

Nevertheless, as a precaution, both the caique and the MAS boat were moved out of the port. The caique was moored under a cliff, where its netting made it virtually invisible from the air, and the MAS boat was anchored in a small bay and crudely, but effectively, camouflaged. Those inhabitants with cellars were advised to turn them into shelters and those without were warned to be prepared to move into the hills.

Though Simi was not yet a target, one morning Larssen told his men that once the Germans knew the SBS were there it would be vulnerable to a landing by German troops. ‘So we cannot allow the Germans to take over the outlying islands from which they might possibly launch an attack on us here. The Italian garrison on Piscopi have just radioed the castle that a German patrol has landed on the far side of the island from their headquarters. It will take some time for the Germans to get to them but they need to be reinforced. Quickly. I want you, Tiger, to take Billy and four men to Piscopi with additional arms and stores for the garrison, and make sure the Krauts are driven off.’

‘Who will take us? One of the Schooner Flotilla?’

Larssen shook his head. ‘It would take too long. I have spoken to Balbao. He will take you and pick you up.’

‘But he still has no fuel,’ Tiller objected.

‘We’re going up to the castle now,’ Larssen replied grimly. ‘No more shilly-shallying with our Italian friends. We get the fuel. Now.’

Salvini, when they arrived at Colonel Ardetti’s office in the castle, blustered and prevaricated. He had, he said, still not received permission to release the fuel. When Perquesta translated this Larssen unslung his Sten and said: ‘Tell Captain Salvini that if he does not produce the fuel – now – I shall take it myself.’

Salvini’s expression darkened and he almost spat out his reply.

‘He asks how you propose to do this,’ Perquesta said. He looked distinctly uncomfortable at being the go-between.

Larssen smiled pleasantly at Salvini and said to Perquesta: ‘Tell him I shoot him first. Then I shoot whoever else stops me,’ and he lifted the barrel of his Sten a few inches. It was a small gesture but an unambiguous one. In the silence that followed, one of the SBS men could be heard putting the garrison through its daily exercises.

‘Your pistol, please,’ Larssen said, nodding at the holster strapped to Salvini’s thick, glossy leather belt. Salvini’s hand lingered momentarily over the holster but the butt of his pistol was covered by a leather flap which was buttoned to the holster. He would have been dead before he had even undone the flap. Instead he shrugged, undid his belt, and dropped it and the holster on to the colonel’s desk, then snapped something at Perquesta.

‘Captain Salvini says that he will lay a formal complaint before the Italian Armistice Commission.’

‘Fuck the Italian Armistice Commission,’ said Larssen pleasantly.

‘Prego, signore?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Captain Salvini and I understand one another.’

Larssen nodded to one of the SBS men. ‘Take him down to the port and lock him up somewhere that’s safe from the locals. I want him on the next boat out of here.’

Tiller stepped forward, undid the flap of Salvini’s holster and withdrew the pistol. He slid the magazine from the butt, flicked the cartridges on to the table with his thumb, and pocketed them before returning the pistol to its holster. It would make a nice souvenir.

Larssen turned to Perquesta: ‘Where do you keep your fuel?’

Perquesta took them out of the castle and up a path which led towards the hills. Around a corner they found a steel door let into the hillside which was surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by two Italians with sub-machine-guns.

Perquesta went up to them and when they shook their heads he started arguing. The guards continued to shake their heads.

‘What’s the matter?’ Larssen said impatiently.

‘They let no one in without a pass from Captain Salvini. He gave them the strictest orders.’

Larssen joined Perquesta and said: ‘Tell them Salvini has been arrested. By me.’

This did not go down well with the guards, who shifted uneasily and looked at one another. One of them began to slide his weapon off his shoulder.

What Larssen did next was so quick and effortless that Tiller, standing only a few yards away, did not immediately grasp what had happened. The Dane stepped forward and in two swift movements struck one man on the side of the jaw and then rammed the same fist into the stomach of the second. As the second guard doubled up Larssen hit him accurately, though not too hard, on the back of his neck with the side of his other hand.

‘Very neat, skipper,’ said Tiller, surveying the two men sprawled on the ground.

‘These help,’ said Larssen removing the brass knuckledusters from his right hand and sliding them into his pocket. ‘Not according to the Geneva Convention, Tiger. No spit and polish. Just wham, bang. You disapprove, eh? Not cricket.’

‘It worked,’ said Tiller. ‘That’s what counts.’

‘Eh, Tiger, we make a pirate of you yet,’ Larssen slapped him delightedly on the back.

The hands of the two unconscious guards were bound with their belts and with a short burst from his Sten Larssen smashed the lock on the gate of the compound. But the steel door was a much more formidible barrier and when they could not find the key on the guards Tiller fetched some explosive. He returned with a yellowish lump of material which had the consistency of plasticine and was the size of a large orange. He moulded it round a small metal cone, attached it with tape to the keyhole and took out a pencil fuse from a container which looked like a small cigar tin.

‘Ten minutes is the shortest time delay I’ve got,’ he said.

‘We can wait,’ said Larssen. ‘Just don’t blow up the fuel as well.’

‘Come on, skipper,’ said Barnesworth reprovingly. ‘Tiger does this sort of thing in his sleep.’

Tiller removed the coloured safety strip from the five-inch fuse, stuck it in the plastic explosive, squeezed the fuse’s soft copper tube to activate it, and retired to a safe distance.

Perquesta, who had watched Tiller prepare the charge in puzzled amazement, said as they waited: ‘That is explosive? Never have I seen explosive like that.’

‘It’s RDX,’ Tiller explained. ‘Research Development Explosive. What you call T4. Mix it with beeswax or oil and it becomes malleable. Plastic explosive, we call it.’

What he didn’t tell Perquesta, because the lieutenant seemed to have an excitable nature, was that the main ingredient of RDX was hexamine, an unstable combination of ammonia and formaldehyde. To stabilize it another explosive like amatol or TNT had to be mixed with it.

‘But why the cone?’ Perquesta asked.

‘It concentrates the shock waves of the explosion into a very small area. Increases the power of the explosive by up to 15 times. Shaped charges, they’re called.’

The explosion, when it came, was violent and effective. Larssen inspected the result approvingly. ‘Good stuff, plastic explosive, but that wasn’t ten minutes, Tiger.’

‘So far the boffins haven’t been able to come up with a pencil fuse that isn’t affected by the temperature,’ Tiller replied. ‘It’s a hot day so it works quicker than it should. And vice versa. I reckon you could wait for ever at the North Pole.’

Perquesta was told to fetch the tractor, and its trailer, while Larssen investigated the fuel store. It was almost empty but there were a dozen large drums of high octane petrol in one corner and these, along with the half-conscious guards, were loaded on to the trailer.

‘We’ll take the fuel,’ Larssen told Perquesta. ‘You take the guards. Let your doctor look at them and then lock them up. They’re Fascists and I’ve had enough of Salvini and his followers. We’ll be back in an hour. I want every soldier not manning a gun position to be on parade in the castle quadrangle. I’m going to tell them exactly where they stand and what they must do.’

Balbao greeted them when they reached the quay with the drums of fuel. There was enough in them, he said, to take them to Piscopi and back and there would be plenty to spare ‘just in case’.

Larssen asked him if he knew the waters around Piscopi.

Balbao shook his head. ‘We take a local man. No problem.’

Tiller suggested Christophou, and Balbao agreed. The drums were left on the quay for the crew and the SBS men to take aboard, and Larssen and Tiller returned to the castle in the tractor. Perquesta had rounded up all the men not on duty and had paraded them in the quadrangle.

Larssen, when he addressed them through Perquesta, said he would not tolerate Fascists any longer. They would be locked up. Those not locked up would fight for the Allies and on Simi the Allies meant him. Perquesta, a fine officer, would lead them and he, Captain Larssen, would ensure they had help from his men and food and ammunition from the British Navy. God Save King Victor Emmanuel.

His address was received in stoic but friendly silence.

‘Are you going in the diplomatic corps after the war, skipper?’ Tiller asked with a grin as they returned to the port.

‘No bloody fear,’ retorted Larssen. ‘I think big-game hunting is what I do. I shall be well trained for it, yes? I have the right instincts. Now you go and talk to our friend Christophou.’

But when Tiller went to the taverna Christophou was not there and when he told Angelika what he wanted him for she said her father would not be able to go. Tiller was puzzled.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Here we all seem friendly to you. But some of us are not. There is at least one collaborator here who serves the Italians, the fascist cause.’

‘Are you sure?’

Angelika nodded. ‘Since he took you the other day my father has been threatened. If he helps again his boat may be tampered with, perhaps sunk. He may even be killed.’

‘So he is not prepared to help?’

Angelika hesitated and said: ‘Yes, of course he will help if you ask him. But please do not ask him. He is not a young man any longer. It is too dangerous for him. Choose someone else.’

‘But who?’

Angelika blushed. ‘Ask me.’

Tiller’s expression made her laugh. ‘I know these islands like – how do you say? – the back of my hand.’

Tiller congratulated her on her English and asked where she had learnt it. ‘At college. Then I worked for a tourist firm in Athens. Showing the English around the Parthenon and other places. I also speak Italian. Well? You will take me?’

‘It might be risky,’ Tiller protested. ‘And might not collaborators threaten you?’

‘If they found out, yes. But I make sure they do not find out. If anyone asks, my mother will say I am ill.’

‘I think she fancies you, Tiger,’ Larssen said when Tiller told him about Angelika. ‘Still, we don’t want to cause trouble for Christophou and there’s no time to find anyone else. I don’t see what else we can do.’

Larssen looked at Balbao, who shrugged and nodded reluctantly. Women were never popular aboard a ship – they were thought to bring bad luck – but he couldn’t see any alternative either. ‘So long as she knows her job,’ Balbao said.

As soon as darkness fell Angelika, dressed in her father’s clothes and cloth cap, came aboard, asked for the MAS boat’s charts of the area and went below to study them. An hour later, after all the patrol’s equipment, which included a swimmer’s suit for Barnesworth, had been loaded, along with stores and arms for the Piscopi garrison, the MAS boat left the quay and headed out to sea.

‘Get your heads down while you can, boys,’ Tiller told his men. ‘You might not be getting much kip for the next day or two. I’ll stay on the bridge.’

To conserve fuel and prevent a tell-tale white bow wave, which could betray its presence to a German sea patrol, the MAS boat used only one of its engines. Even so Simi quickly became a thin, dark ribbon on the sea behind them. Balbao searched the horizon ahead with his night binoculars. Angelika stood near him on the open bridge, a chart in her hand. Her presence made Tiller wonder why it was some women looked even more attractive in men’s clothes than they did in their own.

After an hour one of the crew brought them mugs of ersatz coffee. Tiller found it almost undrinkable but the night was chilly and it warmed his insides.

Balbao and Angelika spoke in rapid Italian and then the girl tapped Tiller lightly on the arm. ‘You need to go alongside?’

Tiller nodded. ‘We need to get the stores ashore quickly.’

‘There is only one place. Here.’ She shone a shaded torch on the chart and indicated with her forefinger a promontory to the north of the bay. ‘The commander wants to go alongside the quay. It’s all right for a small caique like my father’s, but it is too shallow for an MAS boat.’

‘It is deep enough where you want to go?’

‘Yes. But it is just a flat rock which sticks out into the water. It can only be done in fine weather when the sea is calm.’

‘And it will stay calm?’

Angelika nodded. ‘No meltemi tonight.’

‘What do you think, Commander?’ Tiller asked Balbao.

‘We see,’ said Balbao enigmatically. Out of earshot of Angelika he added: ‘Our pilot is pretty, Sergeant. But how can we be sure she knows what she is doing?’

Piscopi was now large on the horizon ahead. Balbao cut back the MAS boat’s speed until it was only just making way through the oil-calm water. As the boat approached Livadia Bay, where the Italian garrison had its headquarters, the crew took up their action stations.

Tiller went below and woke his men but told them to stay where they were for the moment as there was very little room on deck. But he told Barnesworth to put on his surface swimmer’s suit and then took him back to the bridge.

‘This man’s an expert swimmer,’ Tiller said to Balbao. ‘He can swim ashore and test the depth by the quay and the jetty. You won’t even need to stop. Just make a pass close to it. While he’s measuring you can look at the rock.’

‘How will he measure it?’ Balbao asked. Barnesworth produced his beach gradient reel from a pocket of his suit. Balbao examined it curiously.

‘A fishing reel?’

‘Very nearly,’ said Barnesworth. ‘Except the line on it is marked with split lead pellets so I can read off the depth in the dark or under water. It’s designed for COPP parties to gauge beach gradients.’

‘COPP?’ Balbao queried.

‘Combined Operations Pilotage Parties,’ said Barnesworth. ‘They’re the lads who go ashore to recce prospective beaches before an amphibious landing. But it’s easily adaptable to measure the depth of water. I just insert a crampon somewhere at water level, hook on the line and take the reel to the bottom. The lead pellets will tell me how much line has been unwound. If there’s nowhere to use a crampon I just use a float. Very simple really. But if it’s as shallow as our pilot says it is I won’t need it.’

The explanation convinced Balbao and they crept slowly into the bay. There was no sign of life anywhere. If any of the garrison were still around they must have been fast asleep.

‘Wait till you see us come back,’ Tiller said to Barnesworth as he waited in the stern with him. ‘Then signal us. A series of “R”s will do. But don’t start swimming until I reply with a series of “O”s. You never know, there might well be some Jerry-manned MAS boats around that look like this one.’

‘The captain, he say now,’ said one of the crew emerging out of the dark.

‘Good luck,’ said Tiller.

Barnesworth lowered himself into the water from the ladder, held on for a second and then dropped. With strong powerful strokes he swam away from the MAS boat to clear its propellers, and in moments had vanished into the dark. The MAS boat increased speed slightly and turned back out to sea.

Tiller returned to the bridge with some misgivings. He did not like putting himself and his team in the hands of a former enemy and a Greek girl about whom he knew next to nothing. Still, there was nothing he could do about it now. As a precaution, he called the SBS party up from below and told them to find what cover they could on the deck. At least they would not be trapped below if something went wrong.

With Angelika giving instructions, the MAS boat turned to port. Once out of the bay Balbao turned it north and then circled slowly near the promontory that Angelika had pointed out on the chart. The large slab of rock was just where she said it would be and, with the wind blowing offshore, Balbao readily agreed it would be possible to go alongside it – provided there was enough water.

‘There is,’ Angelika said confidently.

They returned to the position where Barnesworth had left them and after a couple of minutes his shaded torch began flashing the agreed signal. Tiller replied and ten minutes later, like a seal surfacing for air, Barnesworth bobbed up by the counter and climbed aboard by the ladder.

‘Five feet,’ he said when he reached the bridge.

‘Not enough,’ Balbao admitted.

‘Any sign of life?’ Tiller asked. Barnesworth shook his head. ‘I reckon the garrison have taken to the hills along with all the locals.’

The MAS boat crept back to the flat rock and everything was rapidly unloaded on to it. Balbao had to return while it was still dark and once all the stores were ashore he manoeuvred the MAS boat expertly away from the rock, and with a wave headed back to Simi. Tiller fancied that Angelika waved, too, but he could not be sure.

Two of the SBS men went ahead and scoured the buildings around Livadia Bay. To their surprise the carabinieri were still there, their inactivity accounted for by the number of empty Chianti bottles that lay strewn around their quarters. The SBS men brought some of them back to the rock and with their help the stores and extra arms were quickly moved into the bay.

The small garrison appeared cheered by the arrival of the SBS. Tiller found the scruffy, balding corporal who was in charge. He looked old enough to be Tiller’s father, and had that worn-down look all of the SBS had seen on the faces of Italian troops, the look of men who had been beaten and had had enough of fighting. All they wanted to do, their expressions said, was survive and go home to their families. If only life were that easy, Tiller thought grimly.

It turned out that, when pressed, the corporal spoke broken English, which, perhaps cannily, he had not revealed on the previous occasion. From him it soon became clear not only that the locals had fled into the hills when they heard the Germans were coming but that the garrison was expecting to be evacuated before they arrived. When it sunk in they might have to stay and fight they looked appalled.

Tiller and Barnesworth started by checking the Italians’ equipment. They soon found that, as with all the Italian troops they had encountered so far, the garrison had inferior weapons and had little ammunition. Some of their rifles were so rusty they looked dangerous and these were replaced with the Lee Enfield rifles the SBS had brought with them – the standard British infantryman’s weapon – and boxes of .303 ammunition were handed out. Tiller also made sure the Italians knew how to use the twin 6.5mm Breda light machine-guns he had brought along, and then he heated up enough tinned stew for everyone. It always helped to go into battle on a full stomach and the Italians looked half-starved.

At daylight Tiller inspected the defensive positions of the carabinieri and put the garrison to work to improve them. He tried to discover more about the Germans who had landed, but the corporal did not know even how many there were. He had received only one message from the lookout at Monastery Point, on the other side of the island, who had seen them land in Kamara Bay.

‘He say many, many. Then the telephone not work any more.’ Why it had stopped working, the corporal did not know either.

Tiller’s questions were answered later that morning when the lookout arrived. On seeing the Germans land he had immediately abandoned his post, commandeered a donkey and ridden to Livadia Bay during the night. There were, he said, about twenty of them.

‘They arrived on a barge which went away,’ the corporal was able to add. ‘It had plenty guns.’

‘Sounds like a Siebel ferry,’ said Barnesworth. ‘Hope it doesn’t turn up here.’

‘How long before the Germans arrive?’ Tiller said. The Italian corporal sketched the shape of the island with a twig and indicated that the patrol had gone clockwise round the island.

‘Soon if they march quick.’

‘The Krauts march quick,’ said Barnesworth. ‘You can be sure of that. Do we lay a nice little ambush for them north of here, Tiger?’

‘You bet we do, Billy.’

‘We leave?’ the corporal asked eagerly. ‘Twenty, too many Germans. Yes?’

‘Twenty Germans not too many,’ said Tiller, giving the Italian a friendly slap on the back. ‘Not too many at all.’

‘But we can do without the bleeding Luftwaffe,’ said Barnesworth suddenly. ‘Can you hear that, Tiger?’

It was the Blohm and Voss again. It circled once above them and then dropped a cloud of leaflets before flying off. The leaflet was in such rudimentary Italian that one of the SBS men was able to translate it without difficulty. It exhorted the Italians to support their old allies by refusing to join the British.

‘Very artistic,’ said Tiller, looking at the cartoon which accompanied the message. It was an ugly, slobbering bulldog which vaguely resembled Churchill and was wearing a helmet painted with the Union Jack. Its front feet were planted firmly on a valiant-looking Italian soldier shaped like Italy. Its hind feet were on the Dodecanese. The Italian was being handed a bayonet by a smiling, shining Wehrmacht soldier which the Italian was about to plunge into the bulldog’s throat.

Tiller watched the Italians carefully as they studied this crude piece of propaganda. They read it impassively, but Tiller could see it had some effect. One of the Italians slowly unslung his rifle and propped it against the nearest wall.

The corporal ripped one of the sheets in two and spoke to the garrison sharply. Most of them threw the sheets away, but one slipped off his rifle and dropped it to the ground. Another folded the piece of paper carefully and put it in his pocket. Both gestures were unmistakable.

The corporal snarled and ranted. One of the soldiers reluctantly picked up his weapon, but the other refused. He was not defying authority, but every inch of him seemed to spell defeat. He’d had enough and nothing the corporal said would move him.

Then the corporal grabbed one of the sheets from the ground, dropped his trousers, and wiped his behind with it. This brought a snigger from his audience and a roar of approval when he held up the paper, smelt it, and let it drop from his thumb and forefinger with an expression of total disgust.

‘Quite the little actor,’ Barnesworth murmured to Tiller.

Reluctantly, the second soldier picked up his rifle and slung it back on his shoulder with an embarrassed smile. The corporal then looked at the man who had pocketed the pamphlet. The man extracted it and let it drop to the ground.

‘Giovanni might have some spunk after all,’ said Barnesworth. He had christened the corporal Giovanni because the Italian looked the archetypal ice-cream vendor.

‘We’ll soon see,’ said Tiller. ‘I want you to remain here, Billy, with Tranter and Simmonds and seven of these characters. The Krauts aren’t going to oblige us by all of them walking into here in single file together. They’re going to come from at least two directions. I’ll need you to protect my back.’

Barnesworth nodded his agreement.

‘I’ll take the other two blokes to man the Bren. I’ll also take Giovanni and one of the Bredas. He can choose which four men he wants to have with him.’

Tiller signalled the corporal to join him and sketched his plan out in the dirt. He indicated where he intended to set up the ambush to the corporal and made him understand what he intended to do. The corporal nodded. Tiller told him to choose four men and then, nodding meaningfully, put his left hand on his right bicep and flexed the muscle. Giovanni grinned. He knew exactly what Tiller meant.

He called out four names and harangued them briefly. One of them was the man who had refused to pick up his rifle.

‘These good men,’ he said.

To Tiller they looked no different from the others. They were unshaven, their uniforms were torn and dirty, their boots worn out. One wore plimsolls. He indicated the one who had dropped his weapon and asked if he was any good.

‘My cousin,’ the corporal replied.

‘Christ!’ said Barnesworth. ‘They’re worse than the bloody Mafia.’

‘They probably are the Mafia,’ Tiller said. ‘Make sure he doesn’t shoot you in the back, Sarge.’

‘I’ll keep him in front of me,’ Tiller promised.

The ambush site was about a mile along the path towards the promontory. It was even better than Tiller had remembered it because the ground on either side trapped the path into a narrow defile.

Tiller placed the Bren at the start of the ambush area, knowing the two SBS men manning it would not open fire until the trap had been closed, and the less reliable Breda with its less reliable crew at the far end to seal off any escape. He then distributed the Italians along the rest of the path.

‘Tell them that as they are firing from above, they must aim low,’ he told the corporal, indicating his legs. In the heat of a fire-fight it was an error even the most experienced infantryman could make. Giovanni understood.

‘They must not fire until I say so.’ Again the Italian nodded.

The grenades, the more powerful Mills bombs, were primed and distributed, and the ambushers settled down to wait.

The Germans, when they came, could be heard a long way off, shouting gutturally to one another and crashing through the undergrowth.

‘Must think they’re on a fucking Sunday picnic,’ one of the SBS men muttered to Tiller as he pulled back the cocking handle on the Bren. Tiller suddenly felt the adrenalin pounding through him and he gripped the man’s arm so that he looked at Tiller in astonishment.

‘What is it, Sarge?’ he whispered.

Tiller cursed himself under his breath. The skipper was right: he was too conventional, did not use his instincts to keep one step ahead. One day it could be the death of him – and of those with him.

‘They’re doing that deliberately,’ he whispered.

The SBS man thought about it. He had fought against the Germans in the desert, knew they were wily adversaries. It made sense. ‘They could be, at that, Sarge.’

‘Take the Bren and go back to Billy,’ Tiller whispered. ‘Tell him most of them must be coming his way. Take all the Eyeties with you except Giovanni and his cousin, and the Breda team. Make it snappy.’

The two SBS men slipped away. Giovanni and his cousin looked too nervous to hold a gun, much less fire it straight. The shouting and the trampling was closer now. Tiller cocked his silenced Sten, gripped the thick canvas handguard around the barrel, and edged closer to the path, gesturing for the two Italians to follow him.

Suddenly three Germans appeared out of the undergrowth about a hundred yards from Tiller. He held them in his sights. He was in trouble if there were more, he thought. They were making no attempt to keep quiet, but were pushing their way through the bushes, and calling out to one another.

Tiller watched the bushes behind them. There could only be three of them, he decided. He could cope with that. He looked across at Giovanni and his cousin and indicated that he would do the shooting.

The Germans were big, blond fellows, clean, well fed and well armed, but they were very young. And much too sure of themselves.

They entered the cut without a second glance, carrying their rifles at the trail, and when they were ten yards from him Tiller stood up and fired three single shots from the Sten.

The shots made less sound than a champagne cork. The first hit the leading German in the throat before he even saw Tiller. His rifle clattered to the ground and his hands flew up to the wound as he spun round.

The second German saw Tiller just as the SBS sergeant carefully squeezed the trigger again. The bullet ripped into the soldier’s chest and knocked him backwards. His legs buckled under him and he pitched forward on to the first German sprawled across the path. He was dead before he hit the ground but through some physiological quirk he retained his grip on his rifle.

Only the last German had time to do anything. He dropped down on one knee and levelled his rifle. Fleetingly, as he shot the man between his eyes, Tiller admired the speed with which the German had moved, but even with such quick reactions he had had no chance to take proper aim.

Out of the corner of his eye Tiller saw the Italians rise from cover. He waved them down impatiently and then dropped into a crouching position to listen.

A lizard crossed the path, paused enquiringly, and then scuttled into the undergrowth. The first German made a strangled gurgling sound, drummed his heels on the ground, and died. Apart from that all Tiller could hear was the buzzing of the flies which were already beginning to gather over the blood and brains seeping on to the path.

For several minutes Tiller stayed crouched by the path watching the cloud of flies. Then he rose, indicated to the Italians they were to stay where they were, went back to the two men manning the Breda, and beckoned them to follow him.

‘The other Germans must have gone inland,’ he said to Giovanni, indicating with his hand. ‘We’ll take them from behind.’

The Italians followed Tiller back down the path. As they skirted the dead Germans, Tiller was drawn to the open, staring eyes of the one he’d shot in the throat. He looked away quickly.

They headed inland. Away from the beach the ground was rocky and steep. Apart from a few stunted bushes it was almost bare of cover, but a deep gully, which carried a stream to the sea during the wet season, gave them what was needed. Even so, they had to move carefully, one at a time.

Eventually they were able to work their way round until they were directly inland from the bay. They could see the Germans now, large dots spread out across the hillside. They were moving slowly down towards the garrison’s defensive positions. There was a crackle of shots and the dots dropped to ground and returned the fire. Tiller wormed his way forward until he found a good position from which the Breda could enfilade the line of advancing Germans and he indicated it to the two Italians manning the gun.

Suddenly there was a puff of smoke from the hillside and the whoomph-crack of a mortar bomb. Shit, thought Tiller. He had not reckoned with the Germans having a mortar. They had, he knew, a reputation for using them with devastating accuracy.

‘I’m going to have to take that out,’ he said to Giovanni. He pointed to the German position and slit his throat with his forefinger. Giovanni nodded. ‘You stay here. Fire when you know I have taken out the mortar,’ he said, and he made the gesture of firing. ‘Understood?’ Giovanni grimaced.

Tiller worked his way up the hillside, round behind the mortar team, and then crawled forward until he was close enough to be able to throw a grenade.

There were two Germans working methodically from a small dip in the ground which made them invisible to those defending the bay. One was feeding high-explosive bombs down the mortar’s barrel, from which they were ejected with a subdued crump. Tiller watched two bombs as they whirred through the air and exploded on the hillside below.

The other member of the mortar team was breaking open a wooden box full of smoke bombs and piling them beside the mortar. Tiller guessed the mortar crew was just softening up the garrison’s positions before laying smoke to screen the attackers when they made their final dash forward.

Tiller crawled forward, extracted the pin from the No. 36 grenade with his teeth and lobbed it into the dip. He had primed it with an five-second fuse rather than the normal seven-second one, so it exploded with a jarring thud almost as soon as it hit the ground. There was a terrible scream from one of the Germans; the other, holding his leg, started scrambling up the hill. Tiller lifted his Sten and fired twice; the soldier staggered and fell.

That was five of the bastards, Tiller thought. Another fifteen to go. He heard the enemy commander shouting orders in the distance and tried to pinpoint his position. He had obviously decided to attack anyway, for the patrol rose in line, from what cover they had been able to find, and began advancing on the garrison’s positions.

The Germans were well beyond the range of Tiller’s Sten, so he scrambled to the mortar position and snatched up one of the dead men’s rifles. He thought of using the mortar, but decided it would take too long to realign it. He took careful aim at the nearest German, who was about 200 yards below him and to his right. He squeezed the rifle’s trigger, and the soldier pitched forward, though whether he had been hit, or had just tripped, Tiller couldn’t tell.

Then the Breda opened up below him and to his left. It was in a perfect enfilading position and three of the enemy were hit with its first burst. The figures on the hill hesitated; some went on; others dropped to the ground. A whistle blew and the German commander began shouting his orders above the firing before a brief burst from one of the garrison’s Brens forced him to the ground.

It did not surprise Tiller that Barnesworth, following the adage of reinforcing success, should now mount a counter-attack on the enemy’s right flank. Billy knew his stuff. What did surprise him was that Giovanni and his cousin, who must have followed him round, now rose from cover below him and charged the left end of the German line. He could hear the two men screaming what must have been Italian obscenities as they ran forward and he gave them what cover he could with his rifle until they disappeared over a ridge to his right.

Then another Bren opened up on the Germans’ right flank. That was too much for the attackers and within a minute a white handkerchief appeared on the end of a rifle barrel and then another and another, and the shooting petered out.

Tiller worked his way cautiously forward. From the garrison’s defensive position someone shouted, ‘Hände hoch! Hände hoch!’

Slowly, cautiously, the Germans rose from the ground, holding their hands well above their heads. Tiller watched them carefully, alert for any trick. He counted nine of them. ‘Kommen Sie hier!’ the linguist shouted. ‘Schnell! Schnell!’

But the Germans were reluctant to come quickly, or indeed to come at all. They stood on the hillside as if rooted to the spot, perhaps awaiting instructions from their commander. But it was the Bren to the right of them which eventually gave them their orders, because a burst was fired from it over their heads. The closest broke into a shuffling run and the others followed suit.

Tiller worked his way back down the hillside, collected the Breda team and the two Italians – all of them now grinning from ear to ear – and made his way down to the bay. Barnesworth greeted him enthusiastically. ‘Good going, Tiger. That mortar was causing us real problems. I liked the way you sent those Eyeties in as well.’

‘Not my doing,’ said Tiller. ‘They did it on their own initiative. Talk about Charge of the bloody Light Brigade.’

‘Good Christ!’ said Billy. ‘Whatever next. How did you guess what the Krauts were up to?’

‘I nearly didn’t,’ said Tiller sourly.

‘Well, if you hadn’t sent back that Bren and those extra men I ... ’

‘If, if, if, Billy.’ Tiller felt the tension snap something inside him. Barnesworth looked at his friend understandingly.

‘Two Eyeties dead,’ he said after a pause. ‘A mortar bomb got them in their slit trench.’

Tiller, quite irrationally, felt furious. ‘If they’d dug the fucking slit trench properly, with a parapet, they’d have been all right. Fucking no-hopers.’

Barnesworth paused and said gently: ‘No, it landed right in the trench, Tiger. They didn’t stand a chance.’

Tiller wiped his face. The fury left him as quickly as it had built up, and he said tiredly: ‘You’re right. Sorry, mate. Any other casualties?’

‘Couple of mortar-bomb fragments, a bullet through the arm, nothing serious. One of the Eyeties was advancing in the wrong direction and got a fragment in his arse. He won’t be sitting down for a while. But most of them behaved pretty well.’

‘And the Krauts?’

‘We found eight dead on the hill, including the mortarmen. A couple more have a hole or two in them. They’ll survive if the Eyeties don’t slit their throats.’

‘There are three down the track,’ Tiller said. He remembered the cloud of flies and added: ‘We’d better bury them quick.’

The Italians were talking excitedly among themselves.

‘Good, good, eh?’ the corporal said enthusiastically to Tiller.

‘Very good,’ said Tiller. ‘You’re a brave man, Giovanni. All your men, brave men.’ The corporal saw that Tiller meant it. His effusive gratitute at being so praised was almost embarrassing. Poor bastard, Tiller thought, the Krauts when they came would not call him brave – they’d just shoot him. If he was lucky.

Balbao arrived late at the rendezvous, having been delayed from leaving Simi when naval intelligence in Alexandria put out an alert that two Italian destroyers, now in German hands, were heading towards the islands from Crete.

He brought a sick-berth attendant with him, one of a trickle of key personnel arriving on Simi as the British effort to reinforce the islands gathered momentum. The man treated the wounded, who were then, with the prisoners and the SBS men, loaded aboard at the jetty, while more stores for the diminished garrison were brought ashore. But it was dawn before the MAS boat was ready to make its daylight dash to Simi.

Giovanni wrung Tiller’s hand in farewell. ‘Italians fight good, eh?’

‘Very good, Giovanni, very good. Good luck, mate.’

Tiller knew he would need it. They were all going to need it.

The MAS boat’s crew had just cast off when one of the crew shouted out a warning and pointed seawards.

In the exhilaration of victory Tiller had quite forgotten about the Siebel ferry and when he saw it clawing its way awkwardly around the next headland to the north he could not immediately think what it was. Balbao ordered full speed ahead and the MAS boat leapt forward as the gun crews scrambled to man their weapons.

The Siebel ferry fired first. It began pumping 105mm shells at the MAS boat as the latter picked up speed and made for the open sea. But the German gunners underestimated the astonishing acceleration of their target and the shells fell well astern. The MAS boat’s twin 20mm Bredas returned the fire and Tiller could see in the half light of dawn that the arcing tracer was hitting the target.

The Siebel was well armed but it was very slow and made an easy target. The MAS boat was now making thirty knots and the German gunners had little chance of hitting it. Balbao made a run parallel with the ferry which allowed his gunners to rake it from stem to stern. Then a shell from the Bredas hit a fuel tank on the Siebel and the German vessel suddenly blew up in a sheet of flame.

Balbao slowed and manoeuvred towards the Siebel, but by the time the MAS boat arrived there was no sign of it. A large patch of oil, some of it still alight, with pieces of charred, unidentifiable wreckage floating in it, was all that remained.