Diana’s Foresters, Minions Of The Moon
From Abducting A General
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
The party, when I found them, were star-scattered about a tumble-down stone hut, shaded by a clump oftall plane trees and a beetling rock, with a waterfall and a deep pool. George Harocopos, his old father and his pretty little sister were looking after them in this Daphnis and Chloë décor. Billy (in his account) records that, as the party had been there for two days and as there were many mouths to fill, and also a chance that George, the mainstay of the household, might leave us, I tried to force some sovereigns on Uncle Evthymios, his father. This was a scene that had often happened. Two years before, I had sent five sovereigns with a covering letter saying, ‘Herewith for cigarettes’, to Aleko Kokonas, the schoolmaster ofYerakari, who had been ruining himself and his friends in support of British stragglers. The coins came back the next day with a note, ‘Thanks Mihali, but I’m a non-smoker.’
It was nearly always the same story. We managed to pay our headquarters expenses, but little else, except occasionally helping people left in the lurch by sudden death or disaster. The same applied to all this lordly talk of despatching runners all over the island. They, like everyone else in this story, were unpaid volunteers who worked as they did because they felt honour-bound to do so. We were allies, and there was no more to be said. That is why all the references to ‘Hirelings of the English’ in German communiqués were so ludicrously wide of the mark. They were as mistaken as their references, in thecontext of guerrilla activity, to ‘Communists’ and ‘Bolsheviks’. The only communist contributions to theCretan resistance were their attempts to disrupt the resistance for post-war political ends, as they managed to do with great skill in the rest of Europe. Fortunately, they were in the field too late. All that was worthwhile on the island had been absorbed years before by the non-political EOK movement – theEthniki Organosi Kritis (the National Organisation of Crete) – a centrist resistance movement.
‘Good morning, General. How are you?’
‘Ah, good morning, Major. We missed you.’
We might’ve been in a drawing room. Billy told me that the General’s mood had been alternating between morose depression and comparative cheerfulness. They had had a slight tiff, now made up, at the time ofthe village burnings. I think they were kept at a further distance from each other than would normally have been the case by the Potsdam-Carthusian French that was their only medium of communication. It was too rickety a bridge for all but the most tentative exchanges.
The General had become very fond of Manoli, and Manoli had the impression that he might try to escape. He was keeping a sharper lookout than usual, especially at night. For some reason George filled him with misgiving – rather strangely, for George had a very kindly nature. I think the memory of the closeness ofGeorge’s dagger during our ride through Herakleion had left a deep trace. As a German, the General had at first been an object of horror to all of our party; but as a human being, in the higgledy-piggeldy proximity of recent days, their feelings were guarded but favourable on the whole. My tentative feelings of sympathy had started, I think, with the Ode to Thaliarchus, on Mount Kedros, looking towards Mount Ida, and I have an idea that it was returned, although we, neither of us, referred to it, for the same reason. At any rate, we thanked our stars that, as things turned out, our prisoner was not General Müller, the notorious war criminal: life with him would have become insupportable.
It was easy to gather that the General was far from being an eager Nazi, or admirer of Hitler. When I asked him about war crimes, he said he knew that there had been terrible deeds in the Ukraine, and that elsewhere ‘many things happened which ought not to have happened.’ In my queer role of half-captor, half-host, I felt rather loath to press him on awkward themes. After all, we were not interrogation officers.
He was amazed at our close relationship with the Cretans. I explained about the feelings prevailing between England and Greece since the Albanian campaign, and even long before. And I told him, as well as I could, and as far as discretion allowed, the reasons for the present Husarenstück (Hussar-
I asked him about Germany’s allies on the Russian front, and was very surprised by his answer. By far thebest, he said, were the Romanians, who fought like demons – ‘wie Teufel’ (not, perhaps, it occurred to me, so much for ideological reasons, as from ancient and atavistic fears, all too justified, about the fate ofBessarabia). Next came the Italians, who had been, to his great astonishment, very good indeed. As for the Hungarians, it was, he said, as though they had no heart in it. The Russian campaign sounded like a nightmare. He reminisced a lot about the Great War, then the conversation ranged over many things.
Our sudden change of plans had produced a momentary lull. Once more, there was a great feeling ofstrangeness about these recumbent hours of smoking and talk beside the shady waterfall. I had an inkling that, even in more cheerful times (for him), the General had a rather solitary nature through which ran a dash of melancholy, although there were plenty of reasons at the moment for the deep sighs which recurred, both in his talk and in moments of silence.
~
Our way westward over the plateau of Yious was our familiar east-to-west route over the narrowest part ofwestern Crete. ‘Our sun is rising,’ George had said, as we set off at moonrise. It was a favourite saying in these nocturnal journeys. ‘Off we go,’ Manoli said, ‘Anthropoi tou Skotous.’ This phrase, ‘Men ofDarkness!’ was a cliché that often cropped up in German propaganda when referring to people like us, and we had eagerly adopted it.
We were off, I hoped, on the last lap of our journey. Diana’s foresters. Minions of the moon.
Diana Se Woudbewoners, Gunstelinge Van Die Maan
Uit Abducting A General
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
Toe ek die span gevind het, het hulle om ’n ou verbrokkelende hut van klip rondgestaan. Dit was in die skadu van ’n klomp plataanbome en ’n oorhangende rots, met ’n waterval en ’n diep waterpoel. George Harocopos, sy ou pa en sy pragtige sustertjie het na hulle in hierdie Daphnis en Chloë décor omgesien. Billy (in sy weergawe) vermeld die volgende: Aangesien die groep reeds vir twee dae daar was en dat daar gereeld kos voorsien moes word, en ook dat George, die steunpilaar van die huishouding, ons kon verlaat, het ek probeer om Oom Evthyios, die vader, te dwing om ’n paar ponde te aanvaar. Dit was ’n toneel wat hom al dikwels afgespeel het. Twee jaar vantevore, het ek vyf pond met ’n begeleidende brief aan Aleko Kokonas, die onderwyser van Yerakari, gestuur. Hy en sy vriende het hulself behoorlik verrinneweer in hulle ondersteuning van Britse swerwers: “Hiermee iets vir sigarette,” het ek geskryf. Die volgende dag het die muntstukke met ’n nota teruggekom: “Dankie Mihali, maar ek rook nie.”
Dit was omtrent altyd dieselfde storie. Ons het net daarin geslaag om ons hoofkwartieruitgawes te betaal, maar niks anders nie, behalwe dat ons af en toe mense wat in die steek gelaat was deur ’n skielike afsterwe of ramp, gehelp het. Dieselfde is van toepassing op al hierdie vername gepratery van boodskappers wat dwarsoor die land gestuur is. Hulle, soos almal in hierdie storie, was onbetaalde vrywilligers wat só gewerk het omdat hulle eershalwe gevoel het om so te doen. Ons was bondgenote; en dit was nie nodig om iets verder te sê nie. Dit is waarom al die verwysings na “Engelse huurlinge” in Duitse communiqués die bal so lagwekkend mis geslaan het. Hulle was net so verkeerd in hulle verwysings, in die konteks van guerrilla-aktiwiteite, na “Kommuniste” en “Bolsjewieke”. Die enigste kommunistiese bydraes aan die Kretaanse weerstand, was hulle pogings om die weerstand, vir na-oorlogse politieke doeleindes, te ontwrig, soos hulle met groot bekwaamheid in die res van Europa gedoen het. Gelukkig het hulle die veld te laat daarvoor betree. Al wat op die eiland die moeite werd was, is jare tevore geabsorbeer, voor die nonpolitiese EOK-beweging – die Ethniki Organosi Kritis (die Nasionale Organisasie van Kreta) – ’n sentrale weerstandsbeweging.
“Goeie more, Generaal. Hoe gaan dit?”
“Aa, goeie more, Major. Ons het jou gemis.”
Ons kon net sowel in ’n sitkamer gewees het. Billy het my vertel dat die generaal se buie tussen stuurse depressie en redelike opgeruimdheid gewissel het. Hulle het ’n ligte meningsverskil gehad, nou weer opgemaak, ten tyde van die afbrand van die dorpies. Ek dink hulle was verder uitmekaar gehou as wat normaalweg die geval sou gewees het, as gevolg van die Potsdam-Kartuiser Frans wat hulle enigste medium van kommunikasie was. Dié brug was te wankelrig, behalwe vir die mankoliekerigste verwisseling van woorde.
Die generaal het baie geheg geraak aan Manoli, en Manoli het die indruk gehad dat hy kon probeer het om te ontsnap. Daarom het hy, veral gedurende die nagtelike ure, ’n goeie ogie op hom gehou. Om een ofander rede, het hy vir George gewantrou – dit was nogal vreemd, want George was van nature ’n innemende mens. Ek dink die herinnering aan die nabyheid van George se dolk gedurende ons rit deur Herakleion het diep spore gelaat. As ’n Duitser was die generaal in die eerste plek ’n voorwerp van afkeur vir almal in ons span. Maar as ’n menslike wese in die nabyheid van die warboel van die afgelope dae, was hulle meer op hulle hoede met hulle gevoelens maar, oor die algemeen, heel gaaf teenoor hom. Ek dink my tentatiewe gevoelens van meegevoel het begin met die Ode aan Thaliarchus op Kedrosberg terwyl ons na Idaberg gekyk het, en ek het ’n idee dat dit wedersyds was, hoewel nie een van ons, om dieselfde rede, daarna verwys het nie. In elk geval, soos dinge uitgedraai het, het ons die hemele gedank dat ons prisonier nie generaal Müller was nie. ’n Berugte oorlogsmisdadiger, sou hy die lewe ondraaglik gemaak het.
Dit was maklik om agter te kom dat die generaal, by verre na, nie ’n entoesiastiese Nazi of bewonderaar van Hitler was nie. Ek het hom oor die oorlogsmisdade uitgevra. Hy het gesê dat hy geweet het dat daar verskriklike dade in die Oekraïne gepleeg is, en dat daar op ander plekke “baie dinge gebeur het wat nie moes gebeur het nie.” In my vreemde rol as deels ’n gevangenemer en deels ’n gasheer, het ek ietwat van ’n weersin daarin gehad om hom druk om oor netelige sake te praat. Ons was, in elk geval, nie interrogasie amptenare nie.
Hy was verstom oor ons hegte verhouding met die Kretensers. Ek het die heersende gevoelens tussen Engeland en Griekeland sedert die Albanese veldtog verduidelik, en selfs lank voor daardie tyd. Ek het so goed as ek kon en in soverre as diskresie dit toegelaat het, aan hom die redes vir die huidige Husarenstück (
Ek het hom oor Duitsland se bondgenote op die Russiese front uitgevra, en ek was baie verras oor sy antwoorde. By verre die beste, het hy gesê, was die Roemeniërs wat soos duiwels geveg het – “wie Teufel” (dit het by my opgekom dat dit miskien nie juis oor ideologiese redes was nie, maar eerder as gevolg van oeroue en atavistiese vrese, almal geregverdig, oor die lot van Bessarabië). Die volgende was die Italianers, wat, tot sy groot verbasing, baie goed was. Wat die Hongare betref, was dit asof hulle harte nie daarin was nie. Die Russiese veldtog het na ’n nagmerrie geklink. Hy het baie herinneringe oor die Eerste Wêreldoorlog opgehaal, waarna die geselskap heelwat ander onderwerpe gedek het.
Ons skielike plansverandering het vir ’n rukkie ’n verposing tot gevolg gehad. Die vreemde gevoel van hierdie rustige ure van rook en praat langs die skaduryke waterval, het sterk na vore gekom. Ek het ’n spesmaas gehad dat selfs in vroliker tye (vir hom) die generaal ietwat eenselwig van natuur was met ’n tikkie swaarmoedigheid daarby ingemeng. Op die oomblik egter was daar heelparty redes vir die swaarmoedige sugte wat voorgekom het terwyl hy gepraat het, en ook in oomblikke van stilte.
~
Ons pad in die westelike rigting oor die plato van Yious, was ons bekende oos-na-wes roete oor die nouste deel in die weste van Kreta. “Ons son kom op,” het George gesê toe ons met die opkoms van die maan die pad gevat het. Dit was ’n geliefkoosde gesegde op hierdie nagtelike toere. “Hier gaan ons,” het Manoli gesê, “Anthropoid tou Skolous.” Hierdie frase, “manne van die donkerte” was ’n cliché wat telkemale in Duitse propaganda opgeduik het wanneer hulle na mense soos ons verwys het, en ons het dit gretiglik ons eie gemaak.
Ek het gehoop dat ons op die laaste skof van ons reis was. Diana se woudbewoners. Gunstelinge van die maan.
Flying To And Fro Like Ariel
From Abducting A General
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Dick Barnes’s messenger, when he arrived, turned out to be George Psychoundakis. He had been Xan Fielding’s guide and runner for a long time, then mine, when I had taken over Xan’s area in the west for several months. This youthful, Kim-like figure was a great favourite of everyone, for his humour, his high spirits, his pluck and imagination, and above all, the tireless zest with which he threw himself into his task. If anybody could put a girdle around Crete in forty minutes, he could. George, who was a shepherd boy from the great village of Asi Gonia, later wrote a remarkable book about the whole of the occupation, and the resistance movement. I translated it from his manuscript and it was published under the title The Cretan Runner (John Murray, London), with great success. It is a wonderful book, which I hotly recommend to anyone interested in these things. His account of those particular days is moving, very lively, funny, and always true.
This extraordinary boy not only brought a letter from Dick, but, by speeding over the whole of Retimo and setting a swarm of lesser runners in motion, he helped many of our problems on their way to solution. He found Leftheri Papayanakis from the village of Akhtounda, just inland from the stretch of coast due south of us, from which I hoped we could find a German-free beach on which to get away. A garrison had long been established at Preveli Monastery; but what about the little cove of Karamé, on the steep southern slope of Mount Kedros. Leftheri was to spy out the land and report.
Next George found and brought Yanni Katsias, for whom I had been searching, a great, tough, free-booting giant, like a Kazantzakis hero, who knew every stone, spring, hole and footpath of the southern region mountains. Up to the neck for years in the old feuding and raiding life of these ranges, and a veteran of flock-rustling forays, he was the perfect man to guide us over old hidden tracks, and keep us out of sight and away from harm. He came loping over the hills to join us, with his wary and wolf-like gait. Extremely good-looking, and armed at all points, a heavily fringed turban redundantly shaded a face already by no means open; and his size and strength was such that the rifle that was never out of his hand, carried loosely at the point of balance, seemed reduced to the size and weight of a twig. A better friend than foe, luckily we had always been very fond of each other.
Dashing away to the north-west again, to the crevasse at Dryade where their wireless set was, George returned again the next morning with Dick Barnes himself, an utterly convincing Cretan in boots, kerchief and shaggy cape. I feared that the same difficulties about transport, while everything was still upside down, would prevent his set from coming any closer; also, he would have to go off the air for a day, just when we needed it most. Much better to leave it in situ, with the Changebug (George) flying to and fro like Ariel. Should no beach be suitable due south, he was in favour – unlike Ralph – of fixing up something in the Rodakino area, about three days’ march westwards.
~
This reunion with Dick – like many occasions in occupied Crete when one wasn’t actually dodging the enemy – became the excuse for a mild blind. ‘Mr Pavlo and I set off to Yeni,’ writes George Psychoundakis in his book:
‘where we found Mr Mihali’ (me) ‘and Uncle Yanni Katsias. We sat there until evening and the sun set. Yanni took us to the east side of the village where they brought us some food and first rate wine, and our Keph (our well-being) was great. The four of us were soon singing. Mr Mihali sang a sheep-stealing couplet to the tune of Pentozali, which went –
Ah, Godbrother, the night was dark
For lamb and goat and dam, Sir,
But when we saw the branding mark,
We only stole the ram, Sir.
The ram – the head of the flock – meant the General. It was a couplet he’d made up in the style of the old Cretan mantinada which runs:
Ah Godbrother, we couldn’t see,
The night was black and dirty,
But when we saw the branding mark,
We only rustled thirty.’
(It is a satirical couplet about a sheep thief, suddenly finding out that the animals he plans to lift belong to his god-brother; but seeing his god-brother’s earmark, he takes only thirty instead of the whole flock.)
Yanni had shot an enormous hare, in the afternoon, which he had cooked with oil and onions. He had come to be very fond of the Changebug, who had rescued his two small children from a village fired by the Germans a few months earlier, by running across a whole mountain range with them piggy-back. We sat late in the moonlight, emptying the demijohn. It was just what we all needed to forget the stress and anxiety of the situation. George got back with the news that all was going well with the other party. I slept properly for the first time for many nights, still vaguely thinking about the problematical arrival of the boat, but, thanks to that first-rate wine, at one remove. (It’s my delight on a shiny night and the signals are Monkey King.) Dick and George Psychoundakis returned to their den the next day.
Excellent communications had now been established. On the night of the 7th, the party with the General moved by an easy night march to Patsos, which was only two or three hours away from me. They were being fed and guarded by George Harocopos and his family. (George, a thoughtful and well-read boy, later to become a gifted journalist, was the son of a very poor, but very brave and kind family, all of whom had been great benefactors to the wandering British.)
All was going according to plan, if only the news from the coast turned out well.
Om Heen En Weer Te Vlieg Soos Ariel
Uit Abducting A General
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
Toe Dick Barnes se boodskapper opgedaag het, het dit geblyk dat hy George Psychoundakis was. George was vir ’n lang ruk eers Xan Fielding se gids en boodskapper, en toe myne, ná ek vir verskeie maande Xan se area oorgeneem het. Hierdie jeugdige, Kim-agtige persoon was almal se gunsteling omrede sy humorsin, sy opgewektheid, sy durf en waagmoed, sy verbeeldingskrag, en bowenal, vir die onvermoeide entoesiasme waarmee hy homself oorgegee het aan sy taak. As daar iemand was wat binne veertig minute ’n gordel om Kreta kon trek, dan was dit hy. George was ’n herderseun uit die groot dorp Asi Gonia. Hy het later ’n merkwaardige boek geskryf wat die hele besetting en die weerstandsbeweging gedek het. Ek het dit uit sy manuskrip vertaal, en dit was met groot sukses onder die titel The Cretan Runner deur John Murray in Londen gepubliseer. Dit is ’n wonderlike boek wat ek sterk aanbeveel vir enigeen wat in hierdie dinge belangstel. Sy weergawe van daardie besondere dae is deurgaans aandoenlik, taamlik lewendig, komies, en altyd waar.
Hierdie buitengewone seun het nie net ’n brief van Dick afgelewer nie, maar met spoed deur die hele Retimo beweeg en ’n hele swerm minder prominente boodskappers tot aksie oorgehaal. Hy het gehelp om oplossings vir baie van ons probleme te kry. Hy het Leftheri Papayanakis van die dorp Akhtounda, wat net aan die binneland van die kus reg suid van ons geleë is, opgespoor. Ek het gehoop dat hy vir ons ’n strand sou kon vind waar daar geen Duitsers was nie – een wat ons kon gebruik om weg te kom. ’n Garnisoen was lank reeds daar by die Preveli-klooster gevestig – maar wat van die grotjie van Karamé op die steil suidelike hang van die Kedros-berg? Leftheri sou vir ons die terrein verken en terug rapporteer.
Vervolgens het George Yanni Katsias, na wie ek gesoek het, gevind en hom ingebring. Hy was groot, gedug, ’n vrybuiter en ’n reus soos ’n Kazantzakis-held wat elke klip, fontein en voetpaadjie in die suidelike omgewing van die berge geken het. Vir jare al was hy pens en pootjies betrokke in die lewe van vetes wat al lank aan die gang was, en het sy lewe lank te doene gehad met stropery in daardie omgewing. Hy was dus ’n veteraan van strooptogte om vee te smokkel. Hy was sonder twyfel die regte man om ons oor die ou versteekte paaie te begelei, en om ons uit die gesig en weg van leed te hou. Behoedsaam en met lang hale het hy oor die heuwels gekom om by ons aan te sluit. Hy was besonder aantreklik en uiters goed gewapend, en ’n tulbandhoed vol swaar fraiings het ’n oortollige skaduwee oor sy gesig, wat nie juis sigbaar was nie, gegooi. Sy grootte en krag was van so ’n aard dat sy geweer wat altyd in sy hand was, en wat hy só ligweg op ’n middelpunt van balans gedra het, dat dit gelyk het of dit ooreengekom het met die omvang en gewig van ’n takkie. Dit was beter om hom as jou vriend te hê as jou vyand, maar gelukkig het ons albei baie van mekaar gehou.
Met groot haas het George toe weer na die noord-weste toe vertrek, na die skeur by Dryade waar die draadloosstel was. Hy het die volgende oggend met Dick Barnes, die einste hy, teruggekeer. Dick het deur en deur soos ’n ware Kretenser gelyk, van sy stewels af tot by sy kopdoek en wol skouermantel. Ek was bevrees dat dieselfde probleme oor vervoer hom sou verhoed het om die draadloosstel nader te bring terwyl alles nog so deurmekaar was. Hy sou ook vir ’n dag van die lug af moes gaan net toe ons dit die nodigste sou gehad het. Heelwat beter om dit in situ te los met die “Changebug” (George) wat heen en weer soos Ariel kon vlieg. As daar geen strand reg suid van ons geskik sou wees nie, was hy – anders as Ralph – ten gunste daarvan om iets in die Rodakino area, ’n afstand van omtrent drie dae se loop weswaarts, in te rig.
~
Hierdie reünie met Dick – soos heelwat ander geleenthede in die besette Kreta toe mens nie eintlik besig was om die vyand te ontwyk het nie – het die verskoning geword vir ’n matige fuifparty. In sy boek het George Psychoundakis dit so beskryf:
“Ek en mnr. Pavlo het na Yeni toe gegaan waar ons mnr. Mihali” (dis nou ek) “en oom Yanni Katsias raakgeloop het. Ons het daar gesit tot dit aand geword het en die son ondergegaan het. Yanni het ons na die oostekant van die dorp geneem waar hulle vir ons kos en bobaas wyn gebring het, en ons Keph (ons welsyn en samesyn) was uitstekend. Die vier van ons was gou besig om te sing. Mnr. Mihali het ’n koeplet, op die wysie van Pentozali, oor ’n skaapstelery gesing. Dit het so geklink:
Ag, peetbroer, die nag was donker
Vir ’n lam en bok en ’n ooi, Meneer.
Maar toe ons die brandmerk gesien het,
Het ons net die ram gesteel, Meneer.
Die ram – die hoof (die leier) van die trop – verwys na die generaal. Dit was ’n koeplet wat hy op die styl van die ou Kretense mantinada opgemaak het. Dit lui as volg:
Ag peetbroer, ons kon nie sien nie
Die nag was swart en vuil,
Maar toe ons die brandmerk gesien het,
Is net dertig deur ons vasgelê.”
(Dit is ’n satiriese koeplet oor ’n skaapdief wat skielik uitgevind het dat die diere wat hy van plan was om te gaps, aan sy peetbroer behoort het. Maar toe hy sy peetbroer se brandmerk sien, het hy net dertig gevat in plaas van die hele trop.)
Yanni het dié middag ’n yslike groot haas platgetrek wat hy met olie en uie gaargemaak het. Hy het baie geheg geraak aan die “Changebug”, wat op ’n slag sy twee klein kindertjies gered het, toe die Duitsers ’n paar maande vroeër die dorp aan die brand gesteek het. Hy het met hulle dwarsoor ’n hele bergreeks gehardloop terwyl hy hulle op sy rug geabba het. Ons het tot laat in die maanlig gesit en die karba geledig. Dit was presies wat ons nodig gehad het om die spanning en angs van die situasie te vergeet. George het met die nuus teruggekeer dat dit alles goed verloop het met die ander span. Vir die eerste keer in baie nagte het ek goed geslaap, hoewel ek vaagweg steeds gedink het oor die problematiese aankoms van die boot, maar, te danke aan daardie besonderse wyn, was dit vêr verwyderd. (Dis my genot op ’n helder nag, en die seine is Monkey King). Die volgende dag het Dick en George Psychoundakis teruggekeer na hulle lêplek toe.
Uitstekende kommunikasie is toe bewerkstellig. Gedurende die nag van die 7de het die groep met die generaal gemaklik na Patsos toe geloop. Dit was net twee of drie ure van my af. George Harocopos en sy familie het hulle kos gegee en opgepas. (George, ’n bedagsame en belese kêrel wat later ’n begaafde joernalis geword het, was die seun van ’n baie arm, maar uiters dapper en goedhartige familie. Hulle was almal groot weldoeners vir die swerwende Britte.)
Alles het volgens plan verloop – as die nuus van die kus af tog net goeie nuus kan wees.
Preternaturally Quiet In The Brilliant Moonlight
From Abducting A General
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
The next day everything got much worse. No runner came, and suddenly it would have made no difference if he had. For two hundred of the enemy moved into Saktouria. Our way of escape from the island was blocked. We had to begin all over again.
The southern Messara was stiff with troops. Having moved into Saktouria, were they going to advance further west and garrison every possible getaway beach? There was only one remedy. I would have to leave Billy in charge of our party and head further west, but not beyond reach. I would have to locate our other stations and, if possible, lay hands on one of the sets. I would have to get up-to-date intelligence about the chances for new escape routes. I knew that Billy would be all right with Manoli and Antoni and the rest. And the moment I managed to fix things up, they could make their way westward to join me. The thing was to find a place where a ship could drop anchor. We would have to be able to get away fast, before the Germans moved in, otherwise we might find that all our earths had been stopped.
Never has divisibility into three been more longed for: I wanted to stay with the party; to sit huddled over a wireless set in touch with Cairo; and to peer down through the rocks at a beach where there were no Germans.
After sunset on 4 May, George and I changed our appearance to that of peaceful rustics, climbed out of our prickly home, and set off along the Amari.
~
Among the cypresses of Pandanasa, we ran into a hitch. The Hieronymakis family, we knew, were in touch with at least one of our wireless stations. By ill luck, it was about the only village in the region where neither of us had ever been. The Hieronymakis family knew all about us, and we knew all about them, but we had never met. There was no one to vouch for us.
The white whiskered faces turned to each other for corroboration; beetling brows were raised in puzzlement; blank glances were exchanged. They went on calmly fingering their amber beads, politely offering coffee. It was no good raging up and down, gesticulating under the onions and paprika pods dangling from the beams. Every attempt to break through was met by identical backward tilts of the head with closed eyelids, and the placidly dismissive tongue click of the Greek negative. They wouldn’t give an inch until they knew, as they say, what tobacco we smoked. We could, after all, be agents provocateurs. They were vague, smiling and inflexible.
This impressive but exasperating wall of security was broken at last, after two precious hours of deadlock, by the entry of Uncle Stavro Zourbakis from Karines, who was a friend of us all. Everything dissolved at once: greetings, recognition, laughter, raki, a crackle of thorns and sizzling in the hearth, and the immediate summoning and despatch of runners to the two wireless stations in the north-west.
~
In spite of the thought that the ship would be arriving in vain that night, for the third time – unless one of the other stations had warned them of the new garrison at Saktouria – a letter received from Sandy was a great boost. It was a re-establishment of contact, and evidence that Cairo was going all out to help us. The news in a letter from Dick was also out of date – pre-Saktouria, that is – but it contained the signals to be flashed to the boat, on whatever night and near whatever shore it should appear – MK (Monkey King) every ten minutes from 21h00 GMT.
The next phase of the story seems even more confused in retrospect than it did at the time. George and I trudged on to the village of Yeni, five miles beyond Pandanasa, a point roughly equidistant from the areas vital to us.
~
The goat-fold of Zourbovasili, at Yeni, lay in rolling, biblical hills. There was a round threshing floor nearby, where George and I could sleep on brushwood with a great circular sweep of vision. This place was to become, during the next three days, the centre of all coming and going of messengers, as plans changed and options lapsed. But now, after the scrum of the last few days, it seemed preternaturally quiet in the brilliant moonlight.
Ida towered east of us now, Kedros due south. The White Mountains, which had come nearer to us during the day, loomed shining in the west. How empty and still, after our huddled mountain life, was this empty silver plateau. A perfect place to watch the moon moving across the sky, and chain smoke through the night, pondering on the fix we were in, and how to get out of it. (How were Billy and the General? Would the Germans move further west along the coast? Would the boat arrive, failing a signal flash from Saktouria? Or was it, at that very moment, turning wearily back to Africa for the third time – or was it the fourth? … Now read on … How I wished that I could have done so.)
There was not a sound except a little owl in a wood close by, and an occasional clank from Vasili’s flock.
Onnatuurlik Stil In Die Helder Maanlig
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
Die volgende dag het alles vererger. Geen boodskapper het opgedaag nie, en skielik sou dit geen verskil gemaak het as hy wel opgedaag het nie. Want tweehonderd van die vyand het by Saktouria inbeweeg. Ons roete om van die eiland af te ontsnap, was versper. Ons moes weer van heel voor af begin.
Die suidelike deel van Messara was stampvol troepe, en van hulle het Saktoura toe beweeg. Sou hulle verder weswaarts opruk en elke moontlike ontsnappingstrand beset? Daar was net een teenmiddel. Dit was vir my om Billy in beheer van die span te los en verder wes te beweeg, maar nie buite kontak nie. En om vars inligting in te win oor die moontlikheid van nuwe ontsnappingsroetes. Ek het geweet dat Billy saam met Manoli en Antoni en die res, reg sou wees. Die oomblik wat ek daarin geslaag het om dinge reg te stel, kon hulle weswaarts begin beweeg om by my aan te sluit. Die ding was om ’n plek te vind waar ’n skip anker kon gooi, en daarin kon slaag om vinnig weg te kom voordat die Duitsers kon inbeweeg. Anders sou ons vind dat ons hele wêreld tot stilstand gekom het.
Nog nooit was dit om in drie verdeel te kon word meer begeerlik nie: ek wou die vermoë hê om by die span te bly; om saamgedrom om ’n draadloosstel wat in kontak met Kaїro was, te sit; en om deur die rotse af te kyk na ’n strand waar daar geen Duitsers was nie.
Op 4 Mei ná sononder, het ek en George ons voorkoms na dié van plaasjapies verander, uit ons ongerieflike tuiste geklim, en in die pad geval al langs die Amari af.
~
’n Haakplek het vir my en George daar tussen die sipresbome van Pandanasa opgeduik. Ons het geweet dat die Hieronymakis-familie met ten minste een van ons draadloosstasies in kontak was, maar ongelukkig was dit omtrent die enigste dorp in die omgewing wat nie een van ons twee al voorheen besoek het nie. Die Hieronymakis-familie het alles van ons af geweet, en ons het alles van hulle geweet, maar ons het mekaar nog nooit ontmoet nie; en daar was niemand wat ons egtheid kon waarborg nie.
Die gesigte met die baarde het na mekaar toe gedraai vir bevestiging, wenkbroue is in verwarring gelug, en hulle het niksseggend na mekaar gekyk. Hulle het net kalm voortgegaan om hulle amberkleurige krale met hulle vingers om te rol, en ons is heel hoflik koffie aangebied. Dit was nutteloos om woedend op en af te spring, en só óók om daar, onder die uie en die paprikapeule wat aan die balke gehang het, met gebare te beduie. Elke poging om deur te breek, is met ’n identiese teruggooi van die kop, en toe oë, ontvang, saam met die smalende, rustige geklik van die Griekse negatief. Hulle sou nie ’n duim toegee voordat hulle nie geweet het, soos hulle sê, watter tabak ons gerook het nie. Ons kon, op stuk van sake, agents provocateurs gewees het. Hulle was glimlaggend en vaag en onversetlik.
Hierdie indrukwekkende maar halsstarrige muur van sekuriteit is uiteindelik ná twee waardevolle ure in ’n doodloopstraat, afgebreek deur die aankoms van oom Stavro Zourbakis van Karines. Hy was ons almal se vriend. Alles was meteens opgehelder en uitgestryk: ’n gegroetery, herkenning en ’n gelaggery, raki, en die krakende geluid van brandende en suisende dorings in die vuurherd, en boodskappers wat daar en dan ontbied is en na die twee draadloosspanne in die noord-weste uitgestuur is.
~
Ten spyte van die feit dat die skip daardie nag vir die derde keer tevergeefs sou kom – tensy een van die ander stasies hulle van die nuwe garnisoen by Saktouria gewaarsku het – was Sandy se brief ’n groot hupstoot, ’n hervestiging van ons kontak, en ’n bewys dat Kaїro alles in hulle vermoë doen om ons te help. Die nuus in Dick se brief was ook verouderd – met ander woorde pre-Saktouria – maar dit het die seine bevat wat na die skip toe geflits moes word, op watter nag en op watter kus dit ookal sou verskyn – MK (Monkey King) elke tien minute vanaf 21h00 GMT.
Die volgende fase van die storie klink in retrospek meer deurmekaar as wat dit daardie tyd was. Ek en George het na die dorpie Yeni toe aangesukkel. Dit was vyf myl anderkant Pandanasa. Dit was ’n punt wat rofweg dieselfde afstand weg was van al die areas wat vir ons belangrik was.
~
Die bokwêreld van Zourbovasili, by Yeni, het in golwende, bybelse heuwels gelê. Daar was ’n dorsvloer daar naby waar ek en George op struikplante kon slaap. Ons het ’n wye vêrgesig geniet. Hierdie plek sou gedurende die volgende drie dae die middelpunt word van boodskappers wat gekom en gegaan het soos planne verander en opsies verstryk het. Maar nou, ná die skrum van die afgelope paar dae, het dit onnatuurlik stil en helder in die maanlig gelyk.
Ida het aan die oostekant uitgetoring, Kedros reg suid. Die Witberge, wat gedurende die dag nader aan ons gekom het, het blink aan die westekant opgedoem. Hoe leeg en stil, ná ons gebonde lewe in die berge, was hierdie silwer plato nie toe nie? Dit was ’n perfekte plek om die bewegende maan deur die lug dop te hou en dwarsdeur die nag te kettingrook. Dit, terwyl ons bepeins het hoe om die verknorsing waarin ons nou verkeer het, te ontrafel. (Hoe het dit met Billy en die Generaal gegaan? Sou die Duitsers verder wes langs die kus afbeweeg? Gaan die boot daar opdaag sonder ’n seinflits van Saktouria af? Of was hulle op daardie presiese oomblik besig om vir die derde keer terug te draai, Afrika toe – of was dit die vierde keer? … Nou lees verder … Hoe het ek gewens ek kon.)
Behalwe vir ’n klein uiltjie in die woud daar naby, en af en toe die klanke van Vasili se trop, was daar nie ’n geluid nie.
Consoling Circuits of the Raki Bottle
From Abducting A General
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Ever since the Battle of Crete, the Amari had been a hideout from the enemy. Hundreds of British and Commonwealth stragglers left behind at Sphakia, or broken out of POW cages, had been clothed and sheltered and fed here. It was a sort of transit camp on the way to secret evacuation at a dozen points on the rocky southern coast. Guerrilla bands, harried from their native ranges, came here to lick their wounds. The place was a general haven; and there was hardly a goat-fold, or ledge of rock, or cave, or olive grove, or orchard on the mountainside that had not been the hideout of a British Liason Officer, with his signaller, wireless transmitter, guards and runners.
All of this was due to the spirit of the villagers, and the harmony and the trust that prevailed between them.
The place was notorious to the enemy. Countless searches had been unable to yield anything or to deter the Amariots. It was not just the Cretan guerrilla tradition that flourished here. It was the courage, the high spirits, the hospitality, the charm, the humour and the kindness which, throughout the Cretan mountains, accompanied the fiercer Cretan traits. The thoughtful literary strain – rather than its poetical counterpart which, in proverbs, marks the home of Retimo – seemed to hover, almost palpably, in the Amarian air. They were just as determined to win the war as anyone in the mountains with a gun; and their losses, by the end, were terrible. But the particular task of the region – as vital and difficult as attack – was that of preservation, rescue and sanctuary.
~
The reaction to the capture, all over Crete, was – it seems – one of unbridled hilarity and jubilation. Antoni related all the rumours and all the talk of the villages: what a smack in the face for General Müller and for the whole German garrison. And – as a wonderful example of the Cretocentric theory of the universe among the simpler of its islanders – they could just imagine how furious Hitler must have been. (None of our party had thought as far afield as this; presumably the remote abduction had been mentioned in despatches; could there have been a minor outburst in the Wolf’s Hole?)
It was the same in Canea and Retimo – we learned from Micky and Elias, who had suddenly arrived, after walking from the bus stop at Retimo and wisely heading for Antoni’s village. And in Herakleion, too. Nothing but grins and innuendo in the street. Almost overt rejoicing, in fact. And somewhat surprisingly, intrigued amusement – here and there – among the lower ranks of the Germans themselves. And of course, utter fury and bewilderment higher up.
Micky, after the General had been introduced to the missing two of his captors, told him – through me – that all the guards of the villa were under arrest, and that his aide-de-camp was in prison, on suspicion of complicity. The General’s blue eyes opened wide with disbelief, then he laughed delightedly. He couldn’t bear him, the General told us. The man was a complete dunce.
~
The night of 2 May was hard to endure. There we were, only a few miles from the lonely shore, where, if all had gone well, we should have been stumbling along, for the last time, down those steep crags running down to the sea, hearing the purr of the engine out to sea, flashing our signals, watching for the sailors’ white uniforms materialising across the dark of the cove as the creak of the rowlocks grew louder; answering muted hails over the water; then sneaking aboard with our captive and our confederates. (Should the General be piped aboard? After all, we had done our best to maintain standards under trying circumstances.)
Would Billy’s Captain, the bluff and bearded Brian Coleman, greet us from the wheel? Soon, as the ship turned about, we would be waving to our dwindling comrades on the rocks as we headed for Africa before the moon got up; then, down to the soft lights of the wardroom, the glow of mahogany and polished brass, the clink of ice. (Pink gin? Whisky? Brandy? Champagne perhaps?) The great silhouette of the island, with the icy watershed of Ida and the White Mountains flashing in the moonlight, would diminish through the porthole.
Red Tabs to greet us the next day at Mersa Matruh, then the flight to Cairo, pointing out to the General the wreckage of all the battles of Montgomery’s advance in the desert below, perhaps persuading the pilot to fly in a loop that would embrace El Alamein, landing at Heliopolis; presenting arms, goodbye to the General; and then, returning in glory to Clusium’s royal home, with all the delights of Cairo waiting.
This, roughly, was the talk, in English and in Greek, that accompanied the consoling circuits of the raki bottle among the brambles.
Tomorrow night perhaps.
