“Corporal-major, where’s our driver?”
The driver could not be found. No one remembered seeing him that morning. He was not a Commando man, but one of the transport pool attached to them in this island of disillusion.
“What the devil can have happened to him, corporal-major?”
“I conclude, sir, that finding it impossible to drive away, he preferred to walk. The moment I saw him, sir, I formed the impression that his heart was not in the fight and, fearing to lose another vehicle, I took possession of the distributor.”
“Excellent work, corporal-major.”
“Transport of all kinds being, sir, in the cant expression of the Australian I mentioned, gold dust, sir.”
A Stuka came near them, spotted the intruders’ truck, circled, dived and dropped three bombs on the further side of the road among the invisible stragglers, then lost interest and soared away to the west. Guy, Fido and Ludovic rose to their feet.
“I shall have to move headquarters,” said Fido. “They’ll all see that damned truck.”
“Why not move the truck?” said Guy.
Ludovic, without waiting for an order, mounted the vehicle, got it going, backed into the road and drove half a mile. The stragglers roused themselves to shout abusively after him. As he returned on foot carrying a tin of petrol in each hand another Stuka appeared, dived on the truck and, luckier than its predecessor, toppled it over with a near miss.
“There goes your—ing transport,” said Ludovic to the straggler sergeant. He had the manservant’s gift of tongues, speaking now in strong plebeian tones; when he turned to the brigade major he was his old fruity self. “May I suggest, sir, that I take a couple of men and go with Captain Crouchback? We might be able to pick up some rations somewhere.”
“Corporal-major,” said Guy, “you don’t by any chance suspect I might make off alone with our truck?”
“Certainly not, sir,” said Ludovic demurely.
Fido said: “No. Yes. Well. Whatever you think best. Only get on with it, for God’s sake.”
Guy found a volunteer driver from his section and soon they set off, he in the cab, Ludovic and two men in the back, down the road they had traveled in darkness.
Sea and land seemed empty; the sky alone throbbed with life. But the enemy had lost interest in trucks for the moment. The aeroplanes were no longer roaming at large. Instead they had some insect-plan a mile or more away in the hills south of the harbor. They followed an unvarying course, coming in from the sea at five-minute intervals, turning, diving, dropping bombs, machine-gunning, circling, diving, bombing, firing, three times each along the same line, then out to sea again to their base on the mainland. As they performed this rite Guy and his truck went about their business undisturbed.
Trampled gardens, damaged and deserted villas gave place to gutted terraces along the road; then villas again into the country beyond Suda.
“Stop here a moment,” said Guy. “We ought to be near X Commando.”
He studied his map, he studied the surviving landmarks. There was a domed church on the left among olive trees, some of them burned and splintered, most of them full and placid as the groves of Santa Dulcina.
“This must be it. Draw into cover and wait here.”
He got down and walked alone into the plantation. It was full, he found, of trenches and the trenches were full of men. They sat huddled, half asleep, and few looked up when Guy questioned them. Sometimes one or another said, in the flat undertone of Creforce: “Keep down, for God’s sake. Take cover, can’t you?” They were pay-clerks and hospital-orderlies and aerodrome ground-staff walking-wounded, R.A.S.C., signalers, lost sections of infantry, tank-crews without tanks, gunners without guns; a few dead bodies. They were not X Commando.
Guy returned to his truck.
“Drive on slowly. Keep a look-out at the back. They’ll have a sentry posted on the road.”
A motor-cyclist suddenly appeared and stopped in front of them. He wore a gray uniform and a close-fitting helmet. He stared at Guy through his goggles with blank young eyes, then hastily turned about and drove off.
“I say,” said Guy to his driver, “what do you imagine that was?”
“Looked like a Jerry, sir.”
“We’ve come too far. About turn.”
Unmolested they backed and turned and drove away. After half a mile Guy said: “I ought to have had a shot at that man.”
“Didn’t give us much time, sir.”
“He ought to have had a shot at us.”
“I reckon he was taken by surprise same as we were. I never thought somehow to see a Jerry so close.”
Ludovic could not have seen the cyclist; that, in a way, was a comfort.
“The stragglers seem to be in front of the firing-line in this battle,” Guy remarked.
They drove back into Suda and near the port stopped at a warehouse. Most of it was burned, but on the far side of the yard stood a pile of petrol tins and two Greek soldiers guarding a little heap of provisions. They greeted their unstable allies with warmth. There was wine among the stores and many empty flasks lying about.
“Jump in,” said Guy.
Ludovic examined the provisions. There were bales of hay, sacks of rice and macaroni and sugar and coffee, some dried but reeking fish, huge, classical jars of oil. These were not army rations but the wrecks of private enterprise. He chose a cheese, two boxes of ice-cream cornets and a case of sardines. These and wine alone were useful without the aid of fire.
They drove slowly back. The aeroplanes still pounded away at their invisible target in the hills. The Greek soldiers fell asleep.
The sun was high and hot, and as Guy’s truck reached the point where the road turned inland the succession of aeroplanes ceased. The last of them dwindled and vanished, a hush fell, perceptible even in the rattling cab, and suddenly all over the roadside figures appeared, stretching and strolling. This was the luncheon recess.
“That looks like our lot,” said the driver, pointing to two men with an anti-tank rifle at the side of the road.
Here at last was Hookforce, in slit trenches interspersed with stragglers in a wide vineyard. The trees were old and gnarled and irregular, full of tiny green fruit just formed. The C.O.s were together squatting in the shade of a carthouse, A, C and X Commandos and the major from B Commando who had landed from the destroyer the night before.
Guy approached and saluted.
“Good morning, sir; good morning, sir. Good morning, Tony.” Since Tommy’s promotion, X had been commanded by a Cold-streamer named Tony Luxmore, a grave, cold young man consistently lucky at cards. He greeted Guy crossly.
“Where the hell have you been? We’ve just sweated up to brigade headquarters and back looking for you.”
“Looking for me, Tony?”
“Looking for orders. What’s happened to your brigade major? We woke him up but we couldn’t get any sense out of him. He kept repeating that everything was laid on. Orders were being distributed by hand of officer.”
“He’s hungry.”
“Who isn’t?”
“He hasn’t had any sleep.”
“Who has?”
“He had a bad crossing. Anyway, here are your orders.”
Tony Luxmore took the penciled sheets and while he and the other commanders studied them, Guy filled his water-bottle at the well. Cistus and jasmine flowered among the farm buildings, but there was a sour smell in the air, exhaled by the dirty men.
“These don’t make any sense,” said the C.O. of A Commando.
Guy tried to elucidate the planned withdrawal. Hookforce, he learned, had done their own regrouping that morning. X Commando alone was up to strength. The orders were amended. Guy made notes in his pocket-book and marks on his map-cover, taking a dry relish in punctiliously observing the forms of procedure. Then he left the weary men, deeply weary himself, and returned to what remained of his headquarters. There he lay down to sleep. Ludovic slept. Fido alone kept open his keen bewild
ered eyes.
They did not sleep long. Sharp at two o’clock came the drone of engines and the dismal cry repeated across the hillside. “Aircraft. Take cover. Take cover. Take cover.”
Major Hound became suddenly animated.
“Cover all metal objects. Put away all maps. Hide your knees. Hide your faces. Don’t look up.”
The Stukas came over in formation. They had another insect-plan for the afternoon. Just below Hookforce headquarters lay a circular fertile pocket of young corn, such as occurs unaccountably in Mediterranean hills. This green patch had been chosen by the airmen as a landmark. Each machine flew straight to it, coming very low, then swung east to a line a mile away off the road, dropped bombs, fired its machine-gun, turned again and headed for the sea. It was the same kind of operation as Guy had watched on the other side of the road that morning. One after another the aeroplanes roared down.
“What on earth are they after?” Guy asked.
“For God’s sake keep quiet,” said Fido.
“They can’t possibly hear us.”
“Oh, do keep quiet.”
“Fido, if we stuck a Bren on a tripod we couldn’t miss.”
“Don’t move,” said Fido. “I forbid you to move.”
“I’ll tell you what they’re doing. They’re clearing a way for their infantry to come round our flanks.”
“Oh, do shut up.”
Everyone was awake, motionless, numb, as though mesmerized by the monotonous mechanical procession.
Hour after hour the bombs thumped. When to the cowering and torpid men the succession seemed interminable, it abruptly ceased. The drone of the last aeroplane faded into silence and the hillside came to life. Everywhere men began lacing their boots and collecting whatever equipment they still had with them. The stragglers in headquarters area silently took the road. Fido raised his muzzle.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We’re simply left in the air with no rear headquarters.”
“Well, we’ve no brigade commander either. I don’t know why you want an advanced headquarters, for that matter.”
“No,” said Fido, “neither do I.”
His tail was right down. Now he was not fair game.
Guy moved away and found a place with fewer thorns. He lay looking up into the sky. The sun was not yet down but the moon rode clear above them, a fine, opaque, white brush-stroke on the rim of her disc of shadow. Guy was aware of movement round him, then was deep asleep.
When he awoke the moon had traveled far among the stars. Fido was scratching and snuffling at him.
“I say, Guy, what’s the time?”
“For Christ’s sake, Fido, haven’t you got a watch?”
“I must have forgotten to wind it.”
“Half past nine.”
“Only that. I thought it was much later.”
“Well, it isn’t. D’you mind if I go to sleep again?”
“Ludovic has disappeared with the truck.”
“Then there’s no point in waking up.”
“What’s more, he’s taken my batman with him.”
Guy slept again, it seemed very briefly. Then Fido was pawing him again.
“I say, Guy, what’s the time?”
“Didn’t you put your watch right when I told you last time?”
“I can’t have, somehow I must have forgotten. It’s ticking but it says seven-fifteen.”
“Well, it’s a quarter past ten.”
“Ludovic’s not back yet.”
Guy turned over and slept again, more lightly this time. He kept waking and turning. His ears caught an occasional truck on the road. Later he heard rifle fire some distance away and a motor-cycle stop; then loud excited conversation. He looked at his watch; just on midnight. He needed more sleep but Fido was standing beside him shouting, “Get brigade headquarters fallen in on the road. Get cracking, everyone.”
“What on earth’s the matter?”
“Don’t bother me with questions. Get cracking.”
Hookforce headquarters comprised eight men now. Fido looked at them in the starlight.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Went with the corporal-major, sir.”
“We shan’t see them again,” said Fido bitterly. “Forward.”
It was not forward they went but backward; back a long way, Fido ahead setting a strenuous pace over the rough road. Guy was at first too dazed to do more than keep step beside him; after a mile he tried to talk.
“What on earth’s happened?”
“The enemy. All round us. Closing in on the road from both flanks.”
“How do you know?”
“The Commandos are engaging them lower down.”
Guy asked no further questions then. All his breath was needed for the march. Sleep had brought no refreshment. The past twenty-four hours had wearied and weakened them all, and Guy was ten years older than most of the men. Fido was putting out all his strength, staring straight ahead into the uncertain star-gloaming. The young moon had set. The pace was slower than a route march, faster than anything else on the road that night. They passed ghostly limping couples, and the ghosts of formed bodies of troops dragging slowly in the same blind flight. They passed peasants with donkeys. After an hour by Guy’s watch, he said: “Where are we going to halt, Fido?”
“Not here. We must get as far as we can before daybreak.”
They passed an empty village.
“How about here?”
“No. An obvious target. We must push on.”
The men were beginning to drop behind.
“I must rest for ten minutes,” said Guy. “Let the men catch up.”
“Not here. There’s no cover.”
The road at this point was a scratched contour round the side of a hill, with precipitous slopes up and down on either hand.
“Once we halt we shan’t get on again tonight.”
“There’s something in that, Fido. Anyway, take it easy a bit.”
But Fido would not take it easy. He led on through another deserted village; going slow, but with all his powers, then there were trees at the roadside and a suggestion of open country beyond. It was nearly four o’clock.
“For God’s sake, let’s stop here, Fido.”
“We’ve a good hour of darkness still. We must push on while we can.”
“Well, I can’t. I’m stopping here with my section.”
Fido did not demur. He turned abruptly off the road and sat down in what seemed to be an orchard. Guy waited on the road while the men one by one came up.
“We’re setting up headquarters here,” he said fatuously.
The men stumbled off the road, over the wall, into the grove of fruit trees.
Guy lay down and slept fitfully.
Fido did not sleep until dawn; in a dream untroubled of hope, he brooded, clasping his knees. He had fallen among thieves. He considered the plain treachery of Ludovic, the suspected treachery of staff-captain and signals officer and he began framing the charges for a court martial. He considered the probabilities of such a court ever being convened, of himself ever being available to give evidence and found them nugatory. Presently the sun rose, the wayfarers, much sparser now, sought cover, and Fido snoozed.
He awoke to a strange spectacle. The road beside him was thronged with hairy men—not merely unshaven but fully bearded with fine dark locks—a battalion of them in numbers, waving a variety of banners, shirts and scraps of linen on sticks; some of them bore whole sheets of bed linen as canopies over their heads. They were dressed in motley. Guy Crouchback was talking to the leading man in a foreign language.
Fido raised his head over the wall and called: “Guy, Guy. Who are they?”
Guy went on talking and presently returned, smiling.
“Italian prisoners,” he explained. “Not a happy party. They surrendered to the Greeks weeks ago on the Albanian frontier. Since then they’ve been marched from place to place until they managed to infiltrate into the retreat an
d got here. Now they’ve been told to join up with the Germans and they’re full of indignation that we won’t transport them to Egypt. They’ve got a very fierce doctor in charge who says it’s contrary to international convention to turn unwounded prisoners loose until the end of hostilities. What’s more, he has an idea that the island is full of furious Australians who will murder them if they catch them. He was demanding an armed escort.”
Fido was not amused. He merely said:
“I don’t know of any international convention which prescribes that.”
In a year or two of war “Liberation” would acquire a nasty meaning. This was Guy’s first meeting with its modern use.
The procession shuffled dismally past and was still in sight when the first aeroplane of the day roared down on them. Some stood their ground and waved their white flags; others scattered. These were the wiser. The German fired a line of bullets through them; several fell; the remainder scattered for cover as the airman returned and fired again.
“The Australians will murder them if they start attracting attention,” said Guy.
Then the German roared away to seek other targets. The irate doctor returned to the road and examined the fallen. He shouted for help and presently two Italians and an Englishman joined him. Together they moved the wounded and dying into the shade. The white flags lay unregarded in the dust.
Guy sat down beside Fido.
“We came a long way last night.”
“Twelve miles, perhaps. I ought to find the G.O.C. and report.”
“Report what? Don’t you think we’d better know what’s really happening?”
“How can we?”
“I can go and find out.”
“Yes. Did you eat all your rations yesterday? I did.”
“I too. What’s more, I’m thirsty.”
“Perhaps there might be something in that village we passed, eggs or something. I believe I heard a cock crowing once. Why not take some men, send them back with anything you find?”
“I’d sooner go alone.”
Fido did not find it in his heart to order a foraging party.
Guy left him in command of a clerk, three signalers and the intelligence section. There seemed to be no orthodox tactical disposal for this force which was scattered and asleep. Fido gazed about him. At a short distance the ground fell away to a gully in which lay a stagnant pool. Two or three men—not his—were bathing their feet there. Fido joined them and dabbled in the night-cool stagnant water.