Blood of Honour Read online

  BLOOD OF

  HONOUR

  JAMES HOLLAND

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by James Holland

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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  Epub ISBN 9781407055848

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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  First published in Great Britain

  in 2010 by Bantam Press

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © James Holland 2010

  James Holland has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Maps by Tom Coulson, Encompass Graphics Ltd, Hove, UK.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBNs 9780593058381 (cased) 9780593058398 (tpb)

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  Typeset in 11/14pt Caslon 540 by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd. Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Mackays, Chatham, ME5 8TD

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  For Richard Braybrooke

  Also by James Holland

  Non-fiction

  FORTRESS MALTA

  TOGETHER WE STAND

  HEROES

  ITALY’S SORROW

  THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN

  Fiction

  THE BURNING BLUE

  A PAIR OF SILVER WINGS

  THE ODIN MISSION

  DARKEST HOUR

  1

  A little before 8.25 a.m. on the morning of Monday, 28 April, 1941. A wooden fishing-boat, some eighty feet long, a painted eye on either side of its prow, was approaching the mouth of the outer harbour at Heraklion. At first glance, it was much like any other caique that had sailed the Aegean for centuries: gaff-rigged with a main and mizzen mast, light rigging either side, a prominent bowsprit, and half a dozen men manning its deck. A closer glance, however, revealed some anomalies. On its foredeck stood a single two-pounder gun, while towards the stern were a brace of mounted Oerlikon 20mm cannon. And that was not all, for fluttering from the top of the mizzen mast was a small White Ensign. His Majesty’s Ship Dolphin was an unusual naval vessel, yet in this war there was room for all shapes and sizes in the Royal Navy – after all, needs must. A flotilla of fast motor gunboats would have been better, a godsend in fact, but Britain’s war effort was already badly stretched and here in the eastern Mediterranean they had to make do with whatever was available. If that meant a wooden fishing boat, then so be it.

  And the caique did have certain advantages. It was certainly a less conspicuous naval vessel, even when armed. At the faintest sound of aircraft, the ensign could be lowered in a trice, the guns covered with tarpaulins and it would look just like any other fishing-boat, plying its trade on the wine-dark sea. Similarly, if Dolphin was threatened, the canvas could be whipped off and they would at least have some form of defence. A versatile little boat, her skipper liked to say.

  At her prow, an army officer sat, gazing towards the harbour, his arms held loosely around his knees. He was still young – in his late twenties – and wearing battledress, although his head was bare save for his mop of dark, almost black hair. A captain in 50 Middle East Commando, Alex Vaughan had been based on Crete since December – the unit had been sent to help shore up the island’s defences. Somewhere along the line, his role had developed so that he was spending less time overseeing the preparation of gun emplacements around the island’s airfields and ports and more helping the British vice consul, Captain John Pendlebury – so much so, in fact, that when 50 ME Commando had been posted back to Egypt, Vaughan had stayed.

  A renowned archaeologist and former curator at Knossos, Pendlebury, Vaughan had discovered, had for some time been almost single-handedly preparing the islanders to resist any German and Italian invasion, should it come – an event that seemed ever more likely now that the Germans were swarming through mainland Greece. Pendlebury was an unlikely warrior, but there could be no denying either his passion or his energy. Vaughan had been impressed by the man’s vision and deep knowledge of the place. More than that, he alone seemed to understand the potential for resistance of both the island and its people.

  But it wasn’t just ships that those on Crete were short of – it was almost everything. There were not enough vehicles, guns or other arms. It was all very well organizing the local mountain kapitans into some kind of resistance force, but they needed to fight with something. Despite pleas to Cairo, there had been little forthcoming: Middle East Command had more pressing concerns – the campaign in North Africa, a potential Axis-backed rebellion in Iraq, fighting in Syria, and, since April, the battle on mainland Greece. Even so, a stash of weapons and equipment had been established in the west of Crete, on Suda Island, and it was from this dump that Pendlebury was now plundering supplies to take back to Heraklion and to the local kapitans. So it was that the old wooden caique was carrying a cargo, not of fish, but of Bren guns, rifles, ammunition, grenades and, above all, explosives. It was something, but there was one vital piece of equipment that Vaughan was especially worried about, and that was the terrible shortage of wireless transmitters; there was not even one that could be salvaged from Suda Island. Communication between one end of the island and the other depended almost entirely on telephone, which, as Vaughan remembered all too well from his time in France, was far too unreliable once the fighting began. When communication was lost, so too was cohesion. And then the battle.

  Vaughan glanced at his watch and tutted to himself. The trip f
rom Suda Island had been uneventful, but they had set sail an hour late. The Luftwaffe had started sending bombers most days – Stukas or Junkers 88s – which would thunder over to bomb the harbour and the small, ancient port. Really, this latest trip was cutting it fine. Another five minutes or so to the inner harbour, Vaughan calculated, then at least half an hour to get all the stores off and to safety. It wasn’t enough, not if Jerry came over this morning at nine as usual. He shook his head. It was strange – one could set one’s watch by the Germans. Why didn’t they come over at different times? It seemed highly counter-productive to him to keep bombing a place at the same hour each day.

  Vaughan looked down into the water. The sails had been unfurled and they were gliding into the outer harbour on Dolphin’s diesel engine, which chugged rhythmically, the sea slapping gently against the prow. Even entering the harbour, the water looked such a deep never-ending blue, but then they passed over a sandy stretch free of rocks and the colour turned from inky darkness to a sparkling iridescent turquoise, and suddenly the sea floor seemed not unfathomable but almost close enough to touch.

  ‘Perhaps Jerry won’t come today,’ said a voice behind him.

  Vaughan turned and looked up at Captain Pendlebury, standing behind him, rope in hand, squinting with his one eye against the early-morning sun’s reflection on the water. Vaughan smiled and raised an eyebrow. Perhaps.

  ‘After all,’ added Pendlebury, ‘they are rather busy at the moment.’

  ‘Pasting our lot leaving Greece?’

  Pendlebury nodded.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Vaughan at length, without much conviction. He knew Stukas were already based on the Italian-garrisoned island of Kasos, to the east. It seemed to him unlikely they would be operating against the British evacuation currently under way from the mainland. He looked ahead, up at the thick, solid walls of the fortress that guarded the entrance to the inner harbour, made with the kind of large rectangular slabs of limestone that he had seen in the Pyramids outside Cairo. There were no towers, no turrets, just a solid, defiant block, and he wondered how many times before the fortress had withstood an enemy attack.

  Following his gaze, Pendlebury said, ‘There’s a sense of continuity, isn’t there? The Mediterranean always looks so peaceful but, my God, the bloodshed it’s seen. We’re in good company. All the way back to Theseus and beyond, people have been arriving here from across the sea to fight.’

  ‘Rather depressing, really.’

  ‘Or quite exciting.’ Pendlebury grinned. ‘You can’t tell me you don’t find all this rather thrilling.’

  Vaughan eyed him silently.

  ‘I’ve spent my life digging up warriors of the past,’ Pendlebury said. ‘To find myself in that position – well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it exciting. I mean, look at us – stealing along the northern coast of Crete with a cargo of arms and explosives, desperately praying we get it into port before the enemy arrive and blow us all sky high. And the fact that it’s rather important, too, Alex, adds to the sense of purpose. This is no frivolous exercise in adventurism.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt it,’ Vaughan replied. ‘You’ve done a great job already, John. But I don’t think I’m quite the romantic you are.’

  Pendlebury patted his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.’ Then the smile suddenly left him. ‘It’s got to be all right,’ he muttered. ‘I care about this island far too much to let the Nazis spread their vile rash across the place.’

  Vaughan gazed back down at the water. Pendlebury was a fine man – an academic, maybe, but he also happened to be a natural leader of men, albeit an eccentric one. He wore an eyepatch for this trip – the glass eye had been left on his desk in his house in Heraklion – and never went anywhere without his swordstick or a rifle slung over his shoulder. But eccentrics could thrive in this war – Britain was turning out all kinds of fighting men who might otherwise never have worn a uniform. And out here, all the normal rules seemed to be going to the four winds. Good God, one only had to look at their skipper. Where had Mike Cumberlege come from? His skin was as tanned as any Greek’s, his hair unkempt, a gold earring in one ear and Lord only knew how many tattoos. He was like a buccaneer of old and yet, by all accounts, he had come from a perfectly respectable background in England. Yet while there was nothing remotely military about him – Vaughan could only imagine what the bigwigs in the Admiralty would make of him – there was no doubting his knowledge or expertise. Sailing was his life. It was said that there was not a cove or bay in all the Aegean Mike Cumberlege and his cousin Cle did not know. Well, that kind of knowledge was damned useful.

  Cumberlege now shouted to them, pointing to a berth along the quayside across the far side of the harbour, between two other caiques. There were perhaps two dozen fishing-boats, dinghies and other vessels moored in the inner harbour. Vaughan saw fishermen passing nets, heard them calling to one another, seemingly oblivious to the war. Men still had to fish, to eat, he supposed. He could smell the harbour too: fish, saltwater, dust, rope and diesel. The ancient town, long ago dominated by the Venetians, rose up from the harbour’s edge and climbed over the ridge behind. Beyond that, and to the west reaching out over a headland into the sea, were the mountains, still hazy but massive in the morning light. No wonder the Cretans felt bullish about resisting any invasion, he thought. Who would want to fight them up there?

  As they neared the quayside, Vaughan glanced at the row of buildings in front of them. The whole line was the same: half a dozen classical façades with a large twelve-foot-high arched window in the centre and two smaller ones either side. Behind these seemingly deceptive frontages lay the town arsenals, with their vast curved roofs, already filling with stores – food, ammunition, weapons, even clothing, so that the soldiers could swap their thick serge battledress for cooler cotton khaki drill now that summer was fast approaching.

  Dolphin slipped smoothly into the gap. Several men were waiting – some of Pendlebury’s Cretans and Corporal Tasker-Brown, too, another from 50 ME Commando who had been commandeered by Pendlebury.

  ‘Here,’ growled one of the Cretans, a man Vaughan recognized as Alopex, one of Satanas’s local kapitans.

  Both Vaughan and Pendlebury threw ropes to Alopex and the waiting men and, moments later, the boat nudged against the quay.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Alopex asked.

  ‘We were late getting going,’ Pendlebury replied, grabbing the first box from their stash of cargo and stepping ashore. ‘Too many ships in Suda Bay.’

  ‘So it’s true? You’re leaving the mainland?’

  Pendlebury nodded, then looked up at the sky.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alopex, following his gaze, ‘we need to be quick.’ He jumped on board and picked up a box.

  On the quayside, a mule and cart were waiting. Hurriedly the men now unloaded the cargo. As Vaughan swung the boxes across to ready hands on the quay, he felt the sweat running down the side of his face and tickling his back. It was hot work, but he wished they could unload and get away even more quickly. All it needed was one bomb, a chance bullet or cannon shell, and they would be obliterated. He glanced at his watch. It was two minutes to nine and they were still by the quayside.

  ‘Come on, nearly there,’ shouted Cumberlege. Vaughan grabbed another box, just as the skipper’s cousin, Cle, passed a wooden crate of explosives to Tasker-Brown – but then, in his haste, let go too soon. Vaughan saw the box drop, his heart lurching as the flimsy crate split and packets of Nobel’s desensitized gelignite tumbled out onto the ground. Jesus, he thought.

  ‘You bloody fool!’ shouted Cumberlege.

  And then Vaughan heard it.

  A faint whirr that made him stop his work despite the burning urgency. He glanced at Cumberlege, then at Pendlebury; they had heard it too. Still finding it exciting? Vaughan thought. He grabbed the last box, handed it to Alopex and jumped onto the quayside.

  ‘Quick,’ said Pendlebury. ‘This way.’

  Alopex yell
ed at the mule, sharply slapped its rump, and with a jerk the cart started moving. He cursed in Greek then said, ‘The mule will only go at mule pace. These beasts will not be hurried.’

  The sound of aircraft was more distinct now. Vaughan searched the skies but he could not see them at first. There was more than one, though, that was for sure.

  ‘A curse on Teutonic timekeeping,’ muttered Pendlebury.

  Along the quayside. It was some two hundred yards to the end of the harbour front and the narrow alley that led to the warren of back-streets. Vaughan knew Pendlebury intended to store the stash first in a cellar somewhere in the heart of the town before distributing it to various dumps in the mountains, away from the town.

  The mule was moving painfully slowly, even though they were all pushing the cart to help. Come on, come on, thought Vaughan. He saw Pendlebury glance at him; even he looked scared now. The sound of aero engines grew louder, and this time, as Vaughan looked up into the deep blue sky, he saw six Stukas, approaching from the east. From flying in a loose vic formation, they now broke into line astern, seemed to overshoot the harbour, but then in turn peeled over and began their dives, the screaming sirens wailing as they hurtled downwards apparently aiming directly for them.

  ‘Keep going!’ shouted Pendlebury.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Vaughan. They were so nearly at the alley – thirty yards, that was all. Thirty yards! Damn it, couldn’t this mule go any faster? He looked up again as the first Stuka released its bomb, so close he could see it perfectly, its point leaning down slightly. He couldn’t help but duck but, to his surprise, the missile landed on the far side of the harbour wall, detonating with a mighty explosion of water rising high into the air. Twenty-five yards. The urge to cut and run was intense; self-preservation – it was a powerful instinct. The next bomb was also behind the harbour wall, but the third was inside, and so was the fourth. Vaughan clenched his teeth. Twenty yards, fifteen, ten. They were still in one piece despite the vast fountains of water and the terrible racket of sirens, engines and exploding bombs. Some gunners were firing their light ack-ack guns, and adding to the din, when the last of the six dive-bombers dropped its load.