Marine B SBS Read online

  His thoughts strayed to Angelika. Had that look contained anything except polite gratitude? He guessed not but the two hours’ watch was passed pleasantly enough speculating about the shy Greek girl and the nature of her stubbornness.

  When his watch was up he leant over and shook Griffiths awake, handed him the Sten gun, pulled part of the mainsail over him, and slept without the nightmare recurring. He was woken at first light when Bryson prodded him with the butt of the Lanchester. ‘Tea’s brewed, Sarge. Captain Larssen says he wants to go to the castle in ten minutes.’

  As soon as they were ushered into Colonel Ardetti’s presence it became apparent that the Italians had had at least a partial change of heart. Perquesta told them that Admiral Maschinni had radioed the previous evening to say that Jarrett and his party had arrived on Leros, and had told Ardetti he was to co-operate with the SBS.

  The SBS men sat down with the Italians, who showed them the plans of the island’s defences. On paper these appeared adequate but on closer questioning Ardetti admitted he was short of ammunition and that not all the gun positions were manned. The ground, he said, was too rocky to dig slit trenches, so stone sangars had been built instead. These overlooked likely landing places, but they provided inadequate protection against anything except small-arms fire and virtually none against air attack.

  There were no landlines between the outposts on the island and no central reserve force to reinforce any of them. Even if there had been there was no method of transporting them as Simi had no roads.

  Larssen then inspected the outposts on the island’s only vehicle, a tractor. At the end of it he advised the colonel to withdraw all his troops from the other parts of the island and concentrate them around the port. ‘And make them dig slit trenches,’ he added. ‘The ground’s not too rocky. They just need to expend a bit of sweat.’

  Many of the garrison, Larssen had noticed, were fat, others were well past their prime. Their morale was suspect – some saluted Ardetti half-heartedly, others ignored him – and their weapons were hopelessly antiquated. They were all equipped with the outdated 6mm Mannlicher-Carcano rifle, which had remained practically unchanged from when it had been first manufactured in 1889 as a copy of the bolt-action Mauser.

  Even the garrison’s light machine-guns were the 1930 model 6.5mm air-cooled Breda, which had all sorts of design problems. Larssen remembered the comments of his instructor on the foreign weapons training course he had attended outside Haifa. If something looked right it generally was right: the Breda looked wrong, was wrong, and invariably went wrong.

  The two coastal batteries were in no better shape than the garrison’s personal weapons. Both had been sited incorrectly and were short of ammunition. The one that had fired at the caique had just half a dozen rounds of 75 mm ammunition left. Most seriously, there were no anti-aircraft guns. If the Germans came Larssen knew it would only be the bravery of the garrison that stopped them, not the weight of the defenders’ fire-power.

  Ardetti, who looked pale and rather shaken by his excursion round the island, turned even paler when Larssen told him, through Perquesta, what he expected from the garrison.

  ‘Naturally, we will support the British force here,’ Ardetti replied. ‘But as you can see my garrison cannot prevent the Germans from taking the island if they want to. We shall need a brigade of good troops here, supported by artillery, of course. When can we expect such a force?’

  ‘Some reinforcements will be arriving this evening, after dark,’ Larssen told him.

  Ardetti’s face lit up when Perquesta translated this. ‘Good, good. A battalion perhaps?’

  Larssen looked at him. ‘No. Four of my men.’

  Perquesta’s jaw dropped. ‘Four?’

  ‘Four,’ Larssen repeated, and held up four fingers.

  Perquesta wrung his hands as he translated. The colonel just shook his head. Salvini smirked. ‘They don’t seem to have much faith in us, skipper,’ Tiller remarked.

  ‘I’ll boot their arses from here to Cairo,’ Larssen said in a sudden flash of temper. ‘They’ll fight whether they want to or not. I’ll see to that. You make your colonel understand that,’ he snarled at Perquesta.

  The Italian lieutenant bit the edges of his moustache and nodded, but Larssen had now worked himself up into a fury.

  ‘I want work on the trenches started now and I shall inspect them this evening. I want them manned at all times. I want flour and pasta released to the local population. Now. And I want fuel for cooking and for the MAS boat.’

  Ardetti’s Italian was so rapid when Perquesta told him this that Perquesta had trouble in translating the torrent. ‘He says the garrison is short of food. They now only have one cooked meal a day. The other two meals are cold. The fuel they need for cooking and for refrigeration and ...’

  ‘And for what?’ Larssen snarled.

  Perquesta hesitated. ‘For heating, signore. The colonel says the castle is damp. It has to be dried out as he suffers from rheumatism.’

  ‘Then the colonel is relieved of his duties and is, as of now, officially on sick leave,’ Larssen snapped. ‘You, Perquesta, will take immediate command.’

  ‘But signore,’ Perquesta protested. ‘Captain Salvini is of senior rank to me.’

  Larssen turned to Salvini, who flinched under the Dane’s hostile stare. ‘Tell our friend here that I don’t like his politics or his face. So I do not propose to put the garrison under his command. However, I won’t lock him up so long as he behaves himself. I want from him a complete list of stores and fuel held by the garrison to be delivered to me on the caique immediately. Is that understood?’

  Salvini, who obviously understood some English, nodded before Perquesta had finished translating. He looked glummer than ever.

  ‘I shall be assigning one of my men to conduct a daily routine of physical exercises for the garrison which will include all officers,’ Larssen added. ‘The first of these will be held in exactly two hours. Captain Salvini is personally answerable to me that these orders are carried out. You, Lieutenant Perquesta, can get on and lick this garrison into some sort of shape. We may not have much time.’

  ‘You can’t do that, skipper,’ Tiller said admiringly as the SBS party descended the hill to the quay, ‘you don’t have the authority.’

  ‘Just watch me, Tiger,’ Larssen retorted. ‘Just watch me. Our job is to keep the Krauts out and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.’

  Salvini, realizing Larssen meant business, had a list of stores and fuel brought to the caique within the hour and an hour after that Barnesworth was putting the garrison through a series of physical jerks and making them negotiate an improvised assault course.

  As soon as it was dark Christophou’s caique came alongside LS8, and arms and ammunition and equipment were passed over. Tiller felt a flicker of disappointment when he realized that Angelika was not aboard. Instead there was a slip of a youth whom Christophou introduced to them as Giorgiou. The youngster smiled shyly, and did what Christophou required of him with a practised ease that came with utter familiarity, but uttered not a word to anyone.

  The Italians, Christophou explained, had taken away both Giorgiou’s parents to the mainland. They had been betrayed by a collaborator on another island who had accused them of being Andartes. Since then Giorgiou had said very little. In his few unoccupied moments aboard the caique he sharpened his knife on a whetstone and tested its sharpness with his thumb.

  Soon after midnight another caique from the flotilla came alongside, having lain up under camouflage nets on the Turkish coast during the day. It offloaded Corporal Ted Warrington, two other SBS men, and a member of the Greek Sacred Squadron, and then set sail for Kos, where it was to meet up with Jarrett.

  Larssen briefed the SBS men to help the Italians organize the garrison’s defences along the lines he had recommended, and ensure his orders regarding the food and fuel were carried out. He then assigned the Greek Sacred Squadron officer, a young lieutenant called Kristo
s, to the job of making sure the local population kept the peace.

  Before dawn broke, borne on a light wind that eddied off the hills, Christophou’s caique left the port with Larssen, Tiller, and Barnesworth aboard. Their first stop was at Piscopi, south-west of Simi. Piscopi, Christophou told them, meant ‘lookout’, as men in olden times had been sent there from Rhodes to watch for Turkish shipping. It was about the same size as Simi – some eight miles long – and was well named, for the high ground dominated the surrounding waters. But it was not as strategically placed, for it did not bar the passage of shipping southwards along the Turkish coast, as Simi did. The Italians had therefore only garrisoned it with a dozen carabinieri, who seemed to have become quite accepted by the population. One had even married a local girl.

  A local Greek spoke a smattering of Italian and through him Larssen impressed the corporal in charge with the importance of radioing Simi if the Germans arrived. The caique then sailed south-east under a clear blue sky and reached Calchi that evening. As they were uncertain whether the Germans had already occupied the island from Rhodes – only a few miles to the south-east – Christophou landed the SBS men outside the port.

  This proved to be a wise precaution for they were soon met by a young Greek who had obviously run from a nearby lookout to greet them. Breathlessly he introduced himself as Demetrios and in broken English explained that ten Germans had arrived in a motor launch from Rhodes earlier in the day and had requisitioned a house near the quay. Soon afterwards, the boy had gone on to explain contemptuously, the small Italian garrison had melted into the hills without firing a shot. After patrolling through the port the Germans had retired to the house with food and wine they had demanded from the locals.

  Larssen sat Demetrios down and had him sketch out on the ground the exact location of the house the Germans had commandeered, and where they had moored their launch. The boy told them there was a sentry outside the house and they had also put one to guard the boat.

  With a twig the boy then traced in the dust a route the SBS patrol could take that would bring them to the back of the house without being seen. Larssen pointed to Demetrios and then to the route. The boy grinned and nodded.

  ‘Good, we have a guide,’ said Larssen. ‘What do you think, boys?’

  ‘I could take the sentry guarding the launch, skipper,’ Tiller volunteered, ‘while you and Billy knock off the one outside the house. Then you can both get into position at the front and back of the house while I’ll chuck in one of those Eyetie grenades you’re so fond of, skipper. They’ll come out like scalded cats and you can finish them off.’

  At Simi they had found a box of Italian grenades, and Larssen, who had used them before, had brought them along.

  ‘No. I don’t want too much shooting in the streets. Locals might get hurt.’

  ‘Set the house alight,’ Barnesworth suggested. ‘Burn the buggers.’

  ‘And probably half the port,’ said Larssen. ‘It would also almost certainly alert the Krauts on Rhodes and we want to be well clear before they send anyone to investigate what’s happened to their patrol. No, that’s not the answer. I think we dispose of the launch’s sentry first, then kill the other sentry, and then finish off the others inside the house. That way there’ll be not much noise.’

  The other two nodded. It made sense.

  Demetrios led them at a brisk pace until they arrived at a high wall that ran alongside the quay. The boy signalled to them that the sentry guarding the launch was on the other side of the wall, and that further along there was a break in it. They moved forward cautiously on their rubber-soled commando boots, stopping to listen every few yards. Soon they heard the sentry’s boots scraping on the stone quay. Then a match was scratched and the faint flare as it lit showed that the German was some thirty feet from them on the other side of the wall.

  Larssen took out from his holster the special .22-calibre pistol all SBS men were issued with, screwed on the silencer, and tapped Tiller on the arm to show he was ready. Tiller and Barnesworth moved silently along the wall until they came to the break that Demetrios had indicated. They went through it and crouched by an upturned boat.

  At first they could only see the glow of the sentry’s cigarette, but then they saw his silhouette. Tiller was relieved to see he was wearing a desert-type forage cap. It would have been more difficult to break his neck if he had been wearing a helmet. They waited what seemed an age. Then they saw the glow of the sentry’s cigarette butt as it arced through the air into the harbour, heard the clatter as he picked up his weapon and the bright ring of his boots on the stone as he approached them.

  The SBS men shrank back behind the counter of the upturned boat until the sentry was just beyond them. Tiller made no sound and the sentry neither saw nor heard anything until Tiller’s forearm tightened around his windpipe and turned his brief cry to a subdued gurgle. But then the German twisted round with a desperation born of terror and for a heart-stopping second Tiller realized that his grip had slipped and that he was not going to be able to break the man’s neck cleanly.

  Suddenly the sentry went limp and Tiller lowered him gently to the ground.

  ‘A strong fellow,’ Barnesworth whispered. ‘But not strong enough.’

  He wiped his knife clean on the German’s uniform before sheathing it. ‘Shove him under the boat.’

  ‘Thanks, Billy.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, mate. Now where’s this fucking launch?’

  They found it further down the quay, a wooden motor boat painted white with a swastika flag fluttering at its stern. Tiller lowered himself into it and opened the seacocks, then climbed back on to the quay. He watched the water rising rapidly up to and then over the thwarts, and then severed its mooring lines. It sank quickly and quietly. If the Germans wanted it they would have to send a diver down to get it.

  They rejoined Larssen and Demetrios, and gave Larssen the thumbs up. Larssen indicated to Demetrios to lead the way to the house. It was a small, two-storey villa, somebody’s holiday home in peacetime. Larssen moved quietly around it while the others waited nearby in the shadows. He returned with a grin on his face, the cheese wire with its wooden handles at either end still dangling from his hand.

  ‘The sentry was sitting near the back door,’ he whispered. ‘Very easy. Let’s go. I take the first floor. You two clear the ground floor. You’ – he pointed at Demetrios – ‘wait here.’

  The sentry lay where he had dropped. Even in the half light Tiller could see his face was puffy and black. His eyeballs were almost out of their sockets and his tongue stuck out. There must be more pleasant ways of dying, Tiller decided, than being garrotted.

  The back door was unlocked. They eased their way in and found themselves in a passage that led straight through the house to the front door. On either side were two rooms, their doors shut. Larssen indicated that Tiller take one and Barnesworth the other, then pointed upstairs and held up his hand with the fingers spread apart, and then bunched them three times.

  Tiller and Barnesworth nodded. They’d give him fifteen seconds after he had reached the first floor before opening fire.

  They watched Larssen move silently down the corridor and listened for any sounds. Through the doors they heard snoring but otherwise the house was as silent as a tomb.

  As Larssen reached the stairs Tiller took one of the scarlet-painted grenades from his pocket. Larssen had told him they were only made of tin, and were nothing like as lethal as a British No. 36 grenade, the so-called Mills bomb. But they made a hell of a bang and, unlike the British grenade, you could follow up behind it immediately without worrying about being hit by fragments. He just hoped Larssen was right.

  Fifteen ... ten ... five ... Tiller pulled the pin from the grenade, kicked the door in, tossed the grenade into the room, and followed in behind the explosion.

  There was a scream and a guttural curse, but at first Tiller could see little through the smoke. Then he saw something move in the far corner and rememb
ered the advice of the instructor at the Killer School: ‘Shoot the man who moves first, as he’s the one who’s recovered first’, and gave the lurching figure a short, measured burst. The man jerked and then slid gently down the wall as the Sten’s 9mm bullets thudded home.

  Then Tiller turned and shot a man who was still on the floor groping for his rifle. The third one had received the full force of the grenade and wasn’t moving.

  It was over in seconds. Tiller cautiously inspected the three bodies by kicking them over on to their backs. They were all dead. The room stank of vomit. Obviously the soldiers, confident that they were safe, had drunk their fill of the local ouzo.

  Next door Barnesworth had killed four others with his grenade and precise, conservative bursts from his Sten. That left one upstairs somewhere.

  The two men took the stairs in quick bounds and found Larssen on the landing.

  ‘No one up here,’ he hissed. ‘Were they all downstairs?’

  Tiller shook his head. ‘Only seven.’

  ‘Shit!’

  They stood stock-still alert for any movement in the house. They could not hear anything, but Larssen’s instincts told him the German was there. Somewhere.

  ‘The lavatory,’ Barnesworth suddenly whispered. ‘It must be downstairs.’

  He thrust his Sten at Tiller, drew his pistol, and in two quick movements jumped down the stairs and vaulted the banisters. He landed in the correct crouching position in the passage below, his pistol held out in front of him in both hands.

  Bending double saved him as the first burst from the German’s Schmeisser almost took off his beret.

  The German was a big fellow. His bulk filled the passage, blocking out the little light that there was. He was stark naked, and he came at Barnesworth at full tilt, screaming obscenities.

  Barnesworth rolled sideways just before the second burst from the Schmeisser ripped by him, and then carefully and clinically shot the German through the head. Barnesworth had never believed the cliché of a single bullet stopping a man dead in his tracks, but then he had never shot anyone at quite such short range.