Marine B SBS Page 7

  It dawned on Larssen as he watched Salvini’s expression that it had not been a mistake at all. If the Italian garrison resisted any English intrusion the Germans could hardly accuse them of treachery. On the other hand the Italians would not want to damage, much less sink, a Royal Navy ship in case the British appeared in force. Which was why the battery had made quite sure it had not hit the caique. And doubtless there were warring factions among the Italians themselves – probably represented by the two men standing in front of him.

  Perquesta could see Larssen disbelieved him. He tugged nervously at the scarlet cravat around his neck. ‘The commandant would like to meet you to hear what the British propose. May I take you to him?’

  Larssen told him to stay where he was and took Tiller and Barnesworth to the other side of the caique.

  ‘We’ve got to do some swift talking,’ he said. ‘We’ll go armed to show we mean business, and we’re going to have to smarten ourselves up.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I’d better shave.’

  ‘I could put on my cap badge again, skipper,’ Tiller said with a grin. He had found that Larssen’s nickname came easily to him now.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Larssen seriously. ‘Clandestine warfare is one thing, diplomacy quite another. We’re going to have to get used to wearing several hats.’

  ‘I volunteered for the SBS to fight, skipper, not pander to a lot of comic-opera characters,’ Barnesworth grumbled.

  ‘You’ll get your fighting, Billy,’ Larssen promised. ‘I’ll see to that. Now let’s get this ship looking like a fishing boat. That damned Jerry plane might still be nosing around.’

  The commandant’s headquarters was in the Crusaders’ castle that was perched above the port. It took them some time to climb the steep track to it but, as Perquesta explained apologetically, the garrison had no transport. The commandant’s office was like a hothouse. A dowdy grey-haired figure, Colonel Ardetti stood up behind his desk and pumped their hands while Salvini, bareheaded now, stood silently and moodily behind him. The colonel talked in rapid Italian which was accompanied by expressive gestures with his hands.

  His duty, he said through Perquesta, was to defend Italian soil. If the British would help him, so much the better. The aide-de-camp bent and whispered something in his ear. The colonel’s face darkened, but he nodded his agreement. However, he continued, it was not as simple as that. The armistice was by no means clear. The loyalty of the armed forces was divided. There were other ways of defending the integrity of Italian territory besides fighting over it.

  He shrugged apologetically, spread his hands out, and then shrugged again. What can I do? his expression said; my hands are tied.

  ‘But the commandant does agree that the garrison must not clash with the civilian population,’ Perquesta said. ‘His excellency says it is a delicate situation. But he will give orders at once for all patrols to be withdrawn and for his troops to be confined to their barracks. Maintaining law and order on the island is now in British hands. Once that has been established, gentlemen, perhaps you would care to have further discussions early tomorrow?’

  ‘First round to Salvini,’ Larssen muttered to Tiller as they left. ‘He’s a Fascist if ever I saw one. I think we must knock the colonel off the fence he’s sitting on.’

  ‘And how do we do that, skipper?’ Barnesworth asked.

  ‘We visit our Italian naval friend. He might be prepared to declare his hand.’

  They returned to the caique, which now had a large fishing net ‘drying’ halfway up its mast, collected Maygan and then walked along to the stone pier where the MAS boat was moored. The sentry at the gangplank saluted smartly and her captain appeared at the rails.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he called down. ‘Come aboard.’

  He took them below to the tiny ward-room under the bridge and mixed the two officers a pink gin each, expertly swirling the Angostura bitters around the glass before adding a generous measure of gin and a touch of bottled water. Tiller and Barnesworth opted for the local ouzo.

  The Italian then introduced himself as Lieutenant Commander Balbao. ‘Cheers, as you say. The British Navy’s favourite drink, eh?’

  ‘You speak good English,’ Larssen said.

  ‘I attended a staff course at your Royal Naval College at Greenwich before the war. What a place, eh? That painted hall. Never shall I forget those guest dinners.’

  He stood up and raised his glass in imitation of the senior naval officer who presided on such occasions. ‘I give you the toast, gentlemen: Admiral Nelson.’ He sat down, happy that he had remembered the occasion so well. ‘And I found the sweetest girl, a real English rose.’ He kissed his fingers.

  ‘We need help, Commander,’ Larssen said.

  ‘Then you come to the right place,’ said Balbao, suddenly serious. ‘You have already talked to the commandant here, yes?’

  Larssen nodded cautiously. Balbao twiddled his glass, drained it, mixed himself another pink gin, and glanced at each of them in turn. Then he seemed to make up his mind. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You are under the commandant’s orders?’

  Balbao shook his head. ‘My superior is Admiral Maschinni on Leros. I answer to him and him only. But naturally my task is to liaise with the army garrisons.’

  ‘And where do you stand, Commander?’ Larssen asked quietly. Balbao knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘I hate fascism. I hope that someone strings up that jackal Mussolini. But I am proud of my country, gentlemen. Italy will rise again.’

  ‘You are on our side, then?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you’ll fight alongside us if necessary?’

  ‘Admiral Maschinni has already given orders to defend Italian territory,’ Balbao said cautiously.

  It was the reply of a diplomat. Balbao knew it and the tone of his voice changed to one of anger. ‘I have no love of the Germans. But what is more important to me is the honour of the Italian Navy. We are an honourable service with a brave past. But never were we allowed to fight. We were always told to avoid it. Run here, run there. Always away from your navy. You understand?’

  Larssen and Maygan nodded in agreement.

  ‘I have no respect for those who commanded our navy. You know what our great poet D’Annunzio said that MAS stood for? For Memento Audare Semper – Remember always to dare. But never, never were we allowed to dare.’

  Maygan and Larssen listened respectfully and later Larssen was to say that the Italian had ‘a buzz in his bonnet, yes?’ Then they led him to the problem in hand by asking how they could best get the commandant on to the British side.

  Balbao sighed. ‘That is another matter. Ardetti, you understand, is not a young man. He wants to get home alive to his wife and children in Genoa. He is much swayed by possible retaliation from the Germans and there are committed Fascists among his staff.’

  ‘Salvini, for instance?’

  The Italian nodded, and added: ‘And some of the men. They are not to be trusted. If I were you I’d lock them up.’

  ‘But we can trust the local people?’ Larssen asked.

  The Italian shrugged. ‘At a time like this, who can tell? Why do you ask?’

  ‘We must visit the smaller islands around here,’ Larssen explained. ‘We therefore need someone with local knowledge. Unless of course ... ’

  He looked at Balbao hopefully, but the Italian shook his head ruefully. ‘I would like to help but it is not possible. I do not have the fuel. I left harbour today because I, too, must be seen to be supporting the commandant. Every move I make is noted.’

  ‘There is no fuel on the island?’ Maygan said in astonishment.

  ‘There is some fuel, but it is under the commandant’s control. I only have what is in my tanks. Enough to get us back to Leros. No more.’

  ‘Ammunition?’ Larssen asked.

  ‘Plenty of ammunition. Plenty of food.’ Balbao lifted his glass and grinned. ‘Plenty of drink. But no fuel.’

  ‘Well, i
t won’t run on gin, I can tell you that,’ Maygan said to Larssen as the captain ushered the SBS party back on deck.

  ‘It needs high-octane petrol. Aviation fuel,’ Balbao said. ‘If you can find me fuel, I can help you.’

  The local taverna, a crumbling building on the quay, was packed when the SBS party arrived, and a small crowd had also gathered outside it. A path to the bar was cleared for them and they were slapped heartily on the back as they walked along it. Inside the bare wooden tables were packed with locals.

  ‘Yasus! Yasus!’ they called out, lifting their glasses. ‘You are welcome here.’

  Angelios Christophou stepped forward from the crowd of men at the bar and gripped their hands. It reminded Tiller of when, as a small boy, he had got his fingers caught in his mother’s wringer. A table was dragged out from the back for them and a bottle of retsina and some glasses placed on it. An ancient radio on a shelf behind the bar blared out martial music. Christophou gestured to it in disgust. ‘Music, music, but they tell us nothing. What is happening, my friends? Italy has surrendered, but no one knows anything else.’

  He poured out the retsina and pushed the glasses brimming with the clear liquid towards his guests. ‘We drink to the Allies, and to give thanks for the defeat of the Italian fascist scum.’

  Larssen glanced at Maygan and knew they were both thinking the same thing: it was going to be difficult to persuade the islanders that Italy was no longer the enemy.

  ‘We know no more than you do,’ Maygan said. ‘Except that the Germans may want these islands. Once they have had time to organize themselves they might try and occupy them. They have already taken over from the Italians on Rhodes. We have come to stop them if they try.’

  Christophou was instantly alert. ‘The Germans?’ He uttered the word ‘Germans’ with unmistakable venom. ‘Why should they come here?’

  Larssen pointed in the direction of the mainland. ‘Turkey. They want her to stay out of the war.’

  Christophou spat on the floor. ‘Bah! the Turks.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to like anyone very much,’ Tiller murmured to Barnesworth.

  ‘I’m glad he’s on our side,’ Barnesworth replied softly. ‘I wonder if there are any more like him.’

  Both SBS men had already glanced around the taverna to see what local manpower might be available to help defend the island, and had come to the same conclusion that there would be none. There were no young men in the taverna, nor any women come to that, though they had seen plenty of children around the port, thin and in tattered clothing.

  All the men they had seen looked over fifty, and many appeared much older. Grand-looking fellows, some of them were, with their long moustaches and dark, piercing eyes. But many appeared to be victims of the islanders’ traditional method of making a living, sponge-diving, for both SBS men recognized the symptoms of diver’s palsy among some of them and noticed in others the swollen joints caused by nitrogen saturation.

  ‘They must be keeping the womenfolk out of sight,’ said Barnesworth, nudging Tiller. ‘They saw you coming, Tiger.’

  The more they looked around them the more obvious it was that the islanders were living on the brink of starvation. Compared with the smooth, well-fed faces of the Italian garrison, the islanders were in a pitiful state.

  ‘We eat,’ Christophou announced. ‘Then we drink some more.’

  He clapped his hands. Tiller made as if to protest, but Larssen shook his head at him. ‘You don’t refuse a Greek’s hospitality even if you know what he is offering you has meant sending his children to bed supperless.’

  The first woman that they saw now appeared from behind a black curtain at the back of the taverna. Her tray was loaded with bread and olives and a plate of cheese. Behind her a girl, her eyes cast down in embarrassment, brought a large plate of salted fish.

  ‘My mother,’ Christophou announced proudly. The old woman nodded and smiled, and shook each hand in turn, but her eyes were sad and cast down.

  ‘And this is my daughter, Angelika. My mother speaks no English but Angelika speaks it well. She is clever, aren’t you, Angelika?’

  The girl looked as if she wished the floor would swallow her up. Tiller caught her eye and smiled encouragingly. ‘This food’ – he gestured at the table – ‘you are very kind.’

  She recognized at once that he was trying to make it easier for her and he was rewarded with a quick glance of gratitude.

  ‘It is nothing,’ she said softly in clear English. ‘You must excuse me’, and before her father could stop her she had slipped away behind the curtain.

  Christophou growled in disgust. ‘Clever she may be, but stubborn, too. That is what is wrong with giving women education. It gives them minds of their own. She would not stay in Athens when the war started. She insisted she came here, and I must say she has been very useful. She is strong and without the young men we need every pair of hands we can find aboard the fishing boat.’

  ‘Where are your young men?’ Tiller asked.

  ‘Many were drafted into the Italian army or navy,’ Christophou answered, ‘but those who escaped are in the mountains.’

  ‘Here?’

  Christophou shook his head. ‘On the bigger islands. That is the trouble. We can’t stop the Germans from coming to Simi or prevent the Italians from staying.’

  Larssen leant forward and said: ‘We can’t stop the Italians from staying either, Angelios. That is something that will be settled when the war is over. But we can stop the Germans coming. To do it we need the Italians to help us, at least until we can bring our own troops to the islands.’

  Christophou absorbed this information without changing his expression and Tiller realized that he had underestimated the Greek, that Christophou had already arrived at that equation himself.

  ‘And us?’ he asked. ‘You mean you want no trouble between us and the Italian pigs?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Christophou stroked the stubble on his chin. ‘That is a hard thing to ask. We are Greeks. The Italians have no right to be here. For most of my life they have suppressed us. They have starved us. Many of us have been beaten by them.’ He shook his head angrily, remembering the injustices. ‘How can I tell the people here not to take revenge? Many are already sharpening their knives.’

  ‘We understand,’ said Larssen. ‘But that has to be settled after the war.’

  Christophou thought for a moment and then shouted across the taverna to a tall, swarthy Greek, who stood up and joined them. He solemnly shook hands all round, and accepted a glass of retsina but refused the food. Christophou talked rapidly to him in Greek. The man argued, then shrugged his shoulders, and eventually nodded.

  ‘Dimitri is the mayor here. He will see there is no trouble. But can you get us food? Our children are hungry.’

  ‘In the morning I am seeing Colonel Ardetti,’ said Larssen. The Dane had seen the condition of the children on Castelrosso and on Simi, and it angered him. ‘I promise you that he will release some food.’

  Dimitri shot a sentence in Greek at Christophou and lifted his glass in turn to the SBS men, who reciprocated. ‘He says we help the English by not cutting any Italian throats. But is there no other way we can help?’

  Larssen hesitated. He was reluctant to involve the islanders, but their local knowledge was needed if he was to fulfil his mission. ‘There is. Tomorrow more of my men will come. Not many, but enough. They will stay and organize the island’s defences while we visit the other islands around here. Piscopi, Calchi, then Alemnia. To do that we need the help of a pilot – someone who knows the area well.’

  Christophou translated rapidly into Greek. Dimitri nodded, and pointed to Christophou, who spread out his hands in a gesture of modesty which he obviously did not feel. ‘Dimitri says I am the right man.’

  ‘You agree to go?’ Larssen asked. ‘It could be dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous? Bah! You know the old way we use here to get to the sponges? Just as we did in the time of the anci
ent Greeks. A rope is attached to us and we sink to the bottom by holding a heavy stone. Like this.’ He clasped an imaginary rock to his chest. ‘We had ...’

  He gestured to show his eyes were covered.

  ‘Face masks.’

  ‘Yes. Nothing more. Then we use – how do you say? – a kind of fork to take the sponge from the bottom. As a boy that was how we did it. Don’t talk to me about danger.’

  ‘Shit,’ Barnesworth said admiringly under his breath.

  Tiller’s professional interest was aroused. ‘But you’ve got diving equipment now?’

  ‘Of course. Diving suits and boats with air pumps. Off the North African coast that is the only way because the sponges are in very deep water. Now that can be dangerous, yes?’

  Tiller remembered a time, in Chichester harbour, when the Davis submarine escape apparatus he was testing malfunctioned. They had got him up just in time. He nodded sympathetically.

  ‘But we sail in my boat, not yours. Many Turkish caiques visit Simi, but not so many sail west of here. Everyone knows my boat. No one will be suspicious.’

  Larssen nodded. ‘That makes sense. Agreed, Andrew?’

  Maygan nodded. The arrangement suited him well. He didn’t fancy putting his caique in the hands of a pilot of unknown skill. Anyway, Bryson needed time to strip the Matilda engine to find the cause of the trouble that had been plaguing it.

  They agreed that only one guard was needed. Tiller took the first watch. He sat next to the covered Solothurn, his back propped against the mast, his Sten across his knees. The taverna shut soon after they left and the few flickering oil lamps in the houses around the quay were extinguished one by one. A dog howled in the distance. The night was moonless but the glittering stars seemed to illuminate the quay with a pale light. The water slapped lazily against the side of the caique, which moved uneasily when the wind gusted in occasionally from the sea. Tiller saw a cat move swiftly between two houses, but no other movement.