Authors: Garrie Hutchinson
Six men are admitted to the Dressing Station. Three have superficial shrapnel wounds, two are unconscious and badly wounded, and one is entirely covered by a blood-stained blanket. Perhaps he is dead.
The bird-like Major with the haggard face works expertly and unceasingly above the stricken men. It is fine to watch him. Corporal Brierly is transcribing the data on the wounded men’s cards onto his records. He is recording pain, he thinks. The Major unhesitatingly plunges the morphia needles into the wounded men and directs the dressing of their wounds. He has fine hands and they execute his work gracefully. When he comes to the motionless man beneath the blanket, he lifts the cloth and although I cannot see the fellow’s face I know the doctor is drawing up his eyelids.
‘Dead!’ he says.
‘He died on the way,’ volunteers an attendant from the ambulance. ‘A bad shrapnel wound in his face. We couldn’t stop his bleeding.’
The Major stares speculatively down upon the dead soldier, his face more haggard than before.
‘Just as well, perhaps,’ he says; ‘had he lived he would have been horribly disfigured, poor fellow.’
Corporal Brierly, his work done, goes out and motions me to follow him. As I walk to the entrance I pass the table at which he has been writing, and glance in passing at the open book. The last entry holds my attention instantly. The name seems to leap up into my soul, bringing with it an agonising sorrow. I turn, remorse tearing at my heart with icy cold fingers. Noel Sankey is lying dead beneath that blanket. A splendid comrade is twisted and dead beneath an unlovely, bloodstained shroud. Even now his life blood is dripping steadily from the stretcher onto the dusty floor. Flies are crawling on the blanket and on the bloodied dust.
There is a silence in my head, greater than I have ever known. I walk to the tent doorway and go out into the late afternoon. A small whirlwind is jerkily pulling a pall of yellow dust towards the ridge. Beyond the ridge the hideous bloodshot sun is going down. I look back, obeying an impulse for which I cannot account. A man is standing alone on the ridge, darkly magnified against the flushed evening sky.
It is Corporal Brierly looking at the sunset.
Charles Jager
Charles Jager was born in 1919 in Melbourne, and was the fourth generation of his family to be involved in the racing industry. His father served at Gallipoli. Charles joined the 2/2
nd
Field Regiment, which found itself in Crete in April 1942 after the costly debacle in Greece – without their 25-pounder guns.There were nearly 40,000 troops on Crete including 6500 Australians from the 6
th
Division, 7750 New Zealanders, 15,000 British – a high proportion of whom were not trained soldiers but base-camp support troops. There were also 10,000 Greeks with little training. German paratroopers and glider-borne troops invaded Crete on May 20th, 1941. Their objective was to capture the island’s airfields thereby facilitating later reinforcement.The initial landings resulted in heavy German casualties. Málemé airfield was only partially captured, whilst at Rethimno and Iraklio the Germans were contained. Over the next two days the battle hung in the balance. After fierce fighting German reinforcements arrived at Málemé and forced the allies to withdraw east, to a line near Chania.
On May 27th, 1941 the British High Command in Egypt ordered the evacuation. Due to well-organised rearguard actions, Allied forces from the Málemé and Suda area were able to be embarked at Sfakia on the south coast between May 28th and June 1st, although many were left behind and had to surrender. At Rethimno, Australians had contained the Germans but received orders to evacuate too late, and were forced to surrender.
Jager was one of those left behind. He was captured twice by the Germans, and twice escaped – the second time all the way to Egypt as described in this extract from his book.
The Australians lost 274 killed and 3102 made prisoner on Crete were virtually all from the ranks of the 6
th
Division.The Cretans also suffered – thousands were executed, often in reprisal for helping Allied escapers. Jager narrowly escaped from the village of Skines where 106 men and boys were forced to dig their own graves before being murdered.
*
With your eyes open,
keyed up to the highest pitch,
agile as a greyhound,
tough as leather, hard as Krupp steel, you will be the embodiment
of a German warrior.
October 9th, 1941.
It is a soft night. We assemble at the water’s edge and, in two trips, row out to our caiiqui. Livanos and his committee, lined up on the shingle with their wives like ten sentinels, wave farewell and we wave back until their shadows merge with the night.
As we come alongside, figures on deck move to and fro. Boarding quickly, Travers leads the ship’s dinghy astern and ties the painter to a cleat on the sternpost. Redpath follows to check on his seamanship.
‘Midshipman Hornblower reporting, sir,’ he quips.
Redpath peeks at the knot he’s tied, then nods approvingly.
Ben’s seamanship, it seems so far, may be all he’s cracked it up to be.
At midnight, Redpath starts the motor and gives the order: ‘Weigh anchor!’ The diesel throbs softly and the anchor is short up and dripping from her bow. ‘Stand by to go about!’ he calls. The wind fills her canvas and we sail for North Africa.
‘There’s the Little Bear,’ says Travers, pointing to a particularly bright star.
‘The Greeks still call it the Phoenician Star,’ says Redpath. ‘They were the first to sail by it – and I’ve already taken a fix.’
’The anchors up, the sails are set
an’ we are homeward bound.’
As he sings the shanty, Barrow beats time, clanging a couple of marlinspikes together.
‘A rovin’, a rovin’,
Since rovin’s bin me ru-i-in,
We’ll go no more a rovin’,
with you, fair maid.’
The moon rises, shining white on the luff of her fores’l. Stan Barrow runs up a swastika he’s found in the ship’s locker. Pacing the deck under its false colours or leaning over the gunnels smoking and chatting, we leave our destiny in Redpath’s hands. To give Crete and Málemé airstrip a wide berth he heads south-west, running our little craft before the wind along a silver pathway to the moon.
Redpath has a compass, the map given him by Livanos and a crew of landlubbers – including prisoners, a ship’s complement of 21 from which to allocate duties. At sea, his hands gripping the tiller, there’s no question of who’s in command. Taking a fix from the lighthouse on Cape Matapan, he sails a course between Matapan and Kythera.
The rations the Mayor arranged for us in the cave have been adequate but, somehow, the provisions for a week’s voyage have been overlooked. Only a day’s rations has come aboard with Redpath. He decides they will be eked out and shared by those with watch duties; not unfair, he believes, because they are on duty day and night. The rest of us can eat into the cargo of figs. There’s barely a murmur of dissent.
For an hour or so we stand up for’ard and watch her stem cleave the Med, or trail arms in the water – because of her cargo she has only about a foot of freeboard – until, assured we are in safe hands, in ones and twos we climb down into the hold to bed down on that soft cargo and listen to the creaking of her stays, the soughing of the wind and the sea slapping against her bows. If ever a pagan is going to open up his soul and give thanks for his deliverance, it will be this night.
*
Redpath’s robust baritone rouses us next morning. Clutching a handful of figs each, we climb out of the hold and lie spread-eagled on the deck; to talk, smoke and look about. We can barely see the lighthouse on Cape Matapan. Redpath is still at the tiller.
‘It’s Sunday,’ he says.
‘Six days shalt thou labour’, he recites, ‘and do all that thou art able. On the seventh day thou shalt holystone the deck and cleanscrape the rusty cable.’
‘Since we’ve got no holystone you lubbers are excused duty.’
The three prisoners are brought up to relieve themselves, handed a few figs and battened down again. Redpath’s cobber, Barrow, takes the tiller from him and Redpath flakes out on the deck nearby. He never once shares the soft comfort of our couch although, as his confidence in them increases, Hosking, Barrow and one or two other Kiwis take a turn at the tiller.
Conditions for a sailing holiday are perfect. Luftwaffe reconnaissance planes fly over but give no indication they’ve seen us. The autumn sun shines benignly and a northwesterly flaps our protective swastika and moves us steadily towards bags of mail and a soldier’s duty. At night, with cheeks pillowed on figs, we listen to the wind vibrating in the cordage and those with aching bellies begin to eat the ‘bedding’.
Two days out, our lookout in the bows raises all heads with a cry of ‘Land Ahoy!’ Far to port, the mountains of Crete are dark serrations on the horizon. Redpath says we are about 80 miles to their west. Nostalgically, we cling to a last glimpse. Finally they sink under water. Redpath swings the tiller and she heads due south for Sollum.
We are fascinated for hours by the little dinghy, twisting and bucking at the painter in our wake, or by trailing an arm idly over the side in sparkling water. The voyage is like sailing towards a rainbow on a pleasure cruise with friends. Somebody says he knows for certain the N.A.A.F.I. canteen at Sollum is stocked with Aussie beer. Of course, we’d all driven along Halfaya Pass to the top of the escarpment above Sollum on our way to the Western Desert and, although we’d never actually entered the port – to confirm or deny his story – we much prefer to believe it. In my mind’s eye the mud walls of those Arab hovels assume the beauty of Capri. Behind them await the pleasures of the Promised Land.
Most marvellous of all, now that olive oil – to which I’ve become so partial – is absent from my diet, the allergy abates, swollen knees subside and I can sit without discomfort; a feeling, I imagine, ancient mariners had when cured of scurvy. And, really, the figs aren’t all that monotonous. And it’s only for a week or so.
*
The figs begin to have a predictable effect. Soon, all are weak from hunger and torn bowels, either comatose down below or flaked out on deck.
At 1600 hours next day we run out of fuel. A light breeze teases the sails. Redpath says we’re making only one or, at most, one and a half knots. At the sound of aircraft, we look up and cheer when we see the red, white and blue concentric circles of a pair of Blenheim fighter bombers. ‘They’re ours!’
We don’t actually dance for joy but to see our own aircraft seeking out the enemy makes us ready to forgive their absence during the Battle of Crete. We are now under the protection of the R.A.F. The blue orchid above will already be radioing base … ‘Sighted some of our chaps from Crete, bearing 135° WSW of Crete. Over.’ A sub will pop up and take us aboard. Or a destroyer at twilight. The swastika flag forgotten, we wave to them like mad.
One Blenheim continues to circle the caiiqui. The other peels off as if to have a closer look but screams down at mast height and drops a stick of five that plop six feet astern – drenching those on the upper deck with spray and close enough to blow us all to Kingdom Come – but fails to explode. This is what war corresponents call ‘friendly fire’. One never knows how the blow may fall.
‘Pull down that damned swastika!’ yells Redpath. ‘Release the prisoners! Up with the Greek flag!’
Noel Park has already untied the lanyard and quickly hauls down the swastika. Murphy has the Greek flag ready and the pale blue and white stripes flutter in the breeze.
‘We’re one of your mob, yer silly bastards,’ we yell. ‘Fuck off!’
The bewildered Greeks emerge from their death trap. Sheamus Boyle’s head pokes out of the hold.
‘What happened? What was that splash?’
The Blenheims circle us warily a couple of times and then, as though the stream of abuse hurled at them has penetrated their cockpit, waggle their wings and head south.
‘The bastards were never there when we wanted ’em,’ Boyle mutters. ‘It’ll be just our luck for an Eyetie sub to pop up next.’
But, rather than depressing us, we believe that the R.A.F., now aware of our plight, will be radioing May Day signals and help will speed from all directions. A lively debate follows about why the Blenheim’s bombs failed to explode. Nobody gets it right.
As the three Greeks appear unresentful, Redpath decides they pose no threat and, in case another bomb-happy Blenheim has a go at us, lets them stay on the upper deck. Adapting to their changed circumstances, they make themselves useful with canvas and tackle. While Redpath is awake the skipper, a lean weathered man of about 40, takes a trick at the tiller with Hosking and Barrow for the rest of the voyage, honouring Redpath’s trust and accepting the hijack philosophically. He proves to be worth his salt.
While the lookout keeps his eyes peeled for a Royal Navy torpedo boat, or a surfacing Royal Navy sub sent to our rescue, the rest of us without duties sprawl listlessly on the deck. Those who can face it nibble another fig. Starving and weak from diarrhoea, hallucinating or dreaming wildly, we wait confidently for the rescue that never comes.
For five days Redpath and his crew resolutely hold their course. Early on 14 October, Cole on watch yells, ‘Land Ahoy!’ and on the southern horizon we see North Africa. Redpath is sure of his bearings and, although we can’t see the walls of Sollum, as the cliffs become visible he points out the harbour entrance. It’s a remarkably accurate landfall and, congratulating ourselves for remaining loyal to such a fine navigator, we pore over his tattered map and reminisce on familiar place names in the desert. Boyle, who has a nose for such things, said earlier that a nip of raki was all that kept Redpath awake. Well, no need to ration himself – now the ordeal’s over he can finish the last bottle. Sparking up, we lunch on figs and prepare for our triumphal entry into port …
*
The engine of a Heinkel 111 has an unmistakable sound. We look up to see a lone German fighter-bomber. Their reconnaissance planes, which had sighted us off the Greek coast, have arranged our welcome in North Africa.
‘Cheeky bugger,’ Murphy says. ‘Sollum just over there. Christ! the bloody flag.’
We were slow learners. Down comes the Greek flag and up goes the swastika. Again, too late. The suspicious pilot circles us, decides we are up to no good and comes in with his back to the sun. But, like a novice, he is far too high above his target for the bomb aimer to score.
Glistening in the sunlight, eight silver canisters spill from the bomb bays, tumble end over end and explode harmlessly a cable’s length from the starboard beam. Eight geysers of water burst skywards.
‘Rotten shot!’ Murphy yells at him. ‘Piss off!’
But, cautiously, the Heinkel continues to circle us and we are as puzzled by his intentions as he apparently is of ours. Those still on the upper deck watch and wait on his next move.
‘What’s he up to?’
Murphy shrugs.
‘Don’t know. Must be an Eyetie pilot.’
As though hearing the insult, the pilot makes his mind up. Banking purposefully, with both cannons blazing and sirens screaming, he plunges at us. As the plane passes overhead and away from us, it is the rear gunner’s turn to add to the terror on the decks below. Strapped in his harness, his face clearly visible and swivelling his gun wildly, he rakes our boat from stem to stern. The curtain is about to fall before the saga’s final episode – without an audience to witness our exit.
When the moment comes to lift one’s head and win a medal, some soldiers are ready and seize it. For many of those who are ready, the moment never comes. Fate thrust this chance at Redpath and he grabs it.
‘Haul down that bloody swastika and hoist the blessed Greek’s!’
As good as done. Cannon boiling in the sea beside us, down comes the Nazi’s red and black emblem and up the lanyard runs the blue and white Greek flag. A fat lot of good it does.
He’s got a full tank, plenty of ammunition, a demonic desire to see us in hell and all day to put us there. We don’t have even a peashooter.
He’s probably abusing the bomb aimer for missing by a mile with his first run and screaming at the rear gunner for failing to clean us up with the second but, with two cannon for’ard of the cockpit, he’s done no better himself.