Snow On Mount Ida And The Tinkling of Goat-Bells
From Abducting A General
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Billy said: ‘Check point ahead.’ Two men were waving a red torch in the middle of the road, and there was a cry of ‘Halt!’ Billy slowed down slightly. When they saw the flags, the two men jumped aside, stood to attention, and saluted. I returned it, and Billy accelerated again, murmuring: ‘This is marvellous.’
‘Herr Major,’ came the voice from behind, ‘where are you taking me?’ ‘To Cairo.’ ‘No, but how?’ ‘To Herakleion.’ There was a pause; then, several keys higher, in complete incredulity: ‘TO HERAKLEION?’ ‘Yes. You must understand that we must keep you out of sight. We will make you as comfortable as we can later on.’
By this time, houses were becoming denser beside the road, and pedestrians and animals more frequent, as was the glow of booths, taverns and cafés. Soon there was another red light, a narrowing of the road, and a cry of ‘Halt!’ Then another. We passed them in the same style as the first, and those that followed. At Fortetza, there was a forbidding wooden barrier as well. Again, the flags sent it sailing respectfully into the air. Soon we were inside the great Venetian city wall, and the main street swallowed us up. The Marlin guns, lowered now, were held ready behind the doors.
The General had sunk below the window level in a vice-like grip. George’s dagger was still threateningly aimed; and when German voices grew loud beside the car, hands were clamped over his mouth. We were held up by a number of manoeuvring and reversing trucks, and soon by a cheerful swarm of soldiers pouring out of the garrison cinema. (It was a Saturday night.) Billy calmly and methodically hooted his way through this mob – a swerving cyclist nearly fell off avoiding us. Creeping along, collecting many salutes as the soldiers cleared out of the way, we reached the turn by the Morosini fountain, and headed left for the Canea Gate. It was the only way out of the town.
If anything went wrong on the way through, the plan was to drive fast for the Canea Gate and, if the barrier there was down, charge it, break through, and then, if pursued, fire long bursts out of the back window and the sides, and hurl the Mills grenades with short fuses which weighted down all of our pockets. (We had plenty of spare magazines for our sub-machine guns and automatics.) Outside the Gate, we stood a chance of getting away. The powerful, brand-new Opel must have been the fastest car in the island, and Billy was a skilful and imaginative driver. With a long start, we could make for the mountains at full speed, get out well before the troops from Retimo, warned by telephone, could head us off from the west, send the car spinning down a precipice, and, after concealing the tracks, strike uphill. But, should there be determination en masse to stop us at the Canea Gate, we would slew round fast and into the lanes – I had a good idea where, thanks to those wanderings with Micky after dark – leave the General tied and blindfold (‘Remember, General, we have spared your life! No reprisals!), block the way with the car, and make a dash for it. There was a maze of alleyways, walls one could jump, drainpipes to climb, skylights, flat roofs leading from one to another, cellars and drains and culverts – as Manoli and I had discovered during our raid on the harbour, of which the Germans knew nothing. If cornered, we had plenty of grenades and spare ammunition and iron rations. Perhaps, by laying up, and with a bit of luck, there would have been a chance. The town was dotted with friends’ houses and, after all, except for a handful of spies and traitors, the whole city would be on our side.
There was a clear run down the narrow main street to the Canea Gate. But as we approached the great barbican, which the Germans had tightened into a bottleneck with cement anti-tank blocks, there were not only the normal sentries and guards, but a large number of other soldiers in the gateway as well. The soldier wielding the red torch failed to budge; it looked as though they were going to stop us. Tension in the car rose several degrees. Billy slowed down – we had planned for this eventuality – cocked his automatic, and put it in his lap; mine was already handy; behind, we heard the bolts on the three Marlin guns click back. When we were nearly on top of them, and one of the guard was approaching, I wound down the window and shouted: ‘General’s Wagen!’
The words ‘General’s Wagen!’ passed peremptorily from mouth to mouth; and the torch was lowered just in time. Billy stepped on the accelerator, the soldiers fell back and saluted, and the sentries jumped to present arms. All of this was acknowledged with a gruff goodnight, and we drove through. We sailed through the other check points (the other inmates of the car counted twenty-two from start to finish) with great smoothness. At last the check points and the long ragged straggle of suburb were all behind us, and we were roaring up the road to Retimo, with the headlights striking nothing but rocks and olive groves. Mount Ida soared on our left; and sea, just discernible, shone peacefully below.
A mood of riotous jubilation broke out in the car. Once more we were talking, laughing, gesticulating, and finally singing at the tops of our voices; and offering each other cigarettes, including the General. They made him as comfortable as they could. I handed back his hat, and asked him if he would give his parole not to attempt to escape. To my relief, he gave it. I then formally introduced Billy. He had no German and the General no English, so civilities were exchanged in French, not very expert on either side. I then presented Manoli, George and Strati by their Christian names, and for a moment the four figures behind all seemed to be formally bowing to each other.
A bit later the General leant forward and said, ‘Sagen Sie einmal, Herr Major, was für ein Zweck hat dieses Husarenstück?’ (Tell me, Major, what is the object of this hussar-stunt?). A very awkward question. (We were passing the solitary khan of Yeni Gave, near our first destination, only twenty miles from Herakleion, but thanks to the bad road, it was already past 11 pm.) I told the General I would explain it all tomorrow.
We now had no local guide since Yanni’s eclipse, but Strati had served in the area as a young policeman, and Manoli and I knew it a bit. We drew up at the bottom of a goat-track which, after a few hours’ climb, would end at Anoyeia. We all got out, and Manoli unlocked the handcuffs. The General was perturbed when he saw that I was going on with George. (‘You are going to leave me alone with these … people?’) I told him the Hauptmann would be in command and that he was under Manoli’s special care. This sounded ambiguous, but there was something in Manoli’s bearing that inspired trust. The party were to lie up outside Anoyeia, and wait for us; Manoli and Strati knew who to contact for food and runners, and for messages to our nearest wireless stations. I saluted, and the General did the same – I was keen on setting this single note of punctilio in our rather bohemian unit. Billy and the General set off uphill, Strati leading and Manoli in the rear, with his gun in the crook of his arm.
There was a certain amount of laughter from the slope when, at last, after several stalls, the car wobbled off down the road, in bottom – I just managed to get the thing along the two miles which led to the beginning of the track that ran down, past the hamlet of Heliana, to the submarine bay and the tiny island of Peristeri. We left the car conspicuously well out in the road. The floor had been purposely covered with fag-ends of Player’s cigarettes; these clues were reinforced by a usurped Raiding Forces beret (‘Who Dares, Wins’), and an Agatha Christie paperback. We kicked up the pathway, running down it to plant a round Player’s tin, and, further on, a Cadbury’s milk chocolate wrapper. (If only we had had a sailor’s cap.) The letter to the German authorities [stressing that this was the work of the English, not the Cretans, in order to avoid reprisals on the local population] was prominently pinned to the front seat. Then – we couldn’t resist it – we each broke off one of the flags which had served us so well. I gave mine to George, who waved them both, saying: ‘Captured standards!’ and shoved them in his sakouli, his colourful, woven rucksack, with the steel rods sticking out.
There was no path. It was only five or six miles to Anoyeia for a crow, but three times as far for us: all ravines, cliffs, boulders, undergrowth, and thorns. Luckily there was a new moon. The only people we saw all night were two boys with pine torches, hunting for eels in a brook. Hailed from afar, they put us on the right track. Every hour or so, we lay down for a smoke. The night was full of crickets, and frogs, and nightingales. The snow on Mount Ida glimmered in the sky, and neither of us could quite believe, in this peaceful and empty region, that the night’s doings had really happened.
The approach of dawn was announced by the tinkling goat-bells of a score of folds waking up in the surrounding foothills, and just above us we could see the white houses of Anoyeia spreading like a fortress along a tall blade of rock.
Sneeu Op Ida-Berg En Die Geklingel Van Bokklokkies
Uit Abducting A General
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
Billy het gesê: “Kontrolepunt voor.” Twee manne het ’n rooi flits in die middel van die pad gewaai, en daar was ’n geroep van “Halt!” Billy het stadiger begin ry. Toe hulle die twee vlaggies sien, het die twee manne uit die pad gespring, op aandag gestaan, en gesalueer. Ek het dit beantwoord, en Billy het weer voet getrap en gemompel: “Dis wonderlik.”
“Herr Major,” het die stem van agter gekom, “waarheen vat julle my?” “Na Kaїro toe.” “Nee, maar hoe?” “Herakleion toe.” Daar was ’n stilte; toe, ’n hele paar toonhoogtes hoër in algehele ongeloof: “HERAKLEION TOE?” “Ja. Jy moet verstaan dat jy nie gesien moet word nie. Ons sal jou later so gemaklik maak as wat ons kan.”
Teen daardie tyd was daar meer huise langs die pad. Daar was heelwat meer voetgangers en diere, en die gloed van stalletjies, tavernes en kafees te sien; en gou was daar nog ’n rooi lig, ’n pad wat vernou, en die geroep van “Halt!” Dan nog een. Ons het hulle op dieselfde manier verbygery, en so ook dié wat daarop gevolg het. By Fortetza was daar ook ’n onheilspellende houtsperpaal. Weereens het die vlaggies dit heel eerbiedig die lug laat inseil. Gou was ons aan die binnekant van die groot Venesiese stadsmuur, en die hoofstraat het ons ingesluk. Die Marlin-gewere, toe laer gehou, is agter die deure in gereedheid gehou.
Die generaal het, in ’n vasknellende greep, laer as die venster gesak. George se dolk was nog steeds dreigend gemik, en wanneer Duitse stemme harder langs die kar gehoor kon word, het hande sy mond toegeklamp. ’n Paar maneuvrerende en agteruit bewegende trokke het ons opgehou, en gou daarna is ons deur ’n vrolike swerm soldate wat by ’n garnisoenbioskoop uitgestroom het, verder vertraag. (Dit was Saterdagaand.) Billy het kalm en metodies sy pad deur die skare getoeter – ’n swenkende fietsryer het amper afgeval, soos hy ons ontwyk het. Al voortkruipende, terwyl ons salute ontvang het, soos die soldate uit ons pad beweeg het, het ons die draai by die Morosini-fontein bereik, en toe het ons links gedraai na die Canea-hek toe. Dit was die enigste pad die dorp uit.
As daar enigiets in die dorp verkeerd sou gaan, was die plan om vinnig op die Canea-hek af te jaag en, sou die sperpaal oor die pad wees, om deur te breek, en dan, as ons agternagesit sou word, aanhoudende skote deur beide van die agterste vensters te skiet en die Mills-granate met kort lonte te gooi. Ons het juis swaar aan hulle in ons sakke gedra. (Ons het heelwat reserwe magasyne vir ons sarsie- en outomatiese wapens gehad.) Anderkant die hek, het ons ’n beter kans gehad om weg te kom. Hierdie kragtige, splinternuwe Opel was seker die vinnigste kar op die eiland, en Billy was ’n behendige en vindingryke bestuurder. Met ’n goeie voorsprong, kon ons teen volle spoed berge toe mik en daar uitklim. Die troepe van Retimo af, gewaarsku per telefoon, kon ons dan nie van die westekant af voorkeer nie. Ons kon daarná die kar by ’n afgrond laat afstort, die spore verbloem, en daarna kon die pad opdraand aangepak word. Maar sou daar ’n massapoging wees om ons by die Canea-hek te stop, kon ons vinnig omdraai en in die lane verdwyn. Ek het ’n goeie idee gehad waarheen, te danke aan my wandelinge in die aande saam met Micky. Ons kon die generaal, vasgebind en geblinddoek, los – Onthou Generaal, ons het jou lewe gespaar! Geen weerwraak nie! – die pad met die kar blokkeer, en dan laat spat. Daar was ’n doolhof van stegies, mure om oor te spring, afvoerpype om op te klim, dakvensters, platdakke wat van een woning na ’n ander gelei het, kelders en dreine en slote – soos ek en Manoli gedurende ons strooptog op die hawe ontdek het; iets waarvan die Duitsers niks geweet het nie. As ons in ’n hoek gedryf sou word, het ons baie granate en ekstra ammunisie en voedsel gehad. As ons net kalm sou bly sit, kon ons met ’n bietjie geluk ’n kans geniet. Oral in die dorp het ons vriende met huise gehad en eintlik, met die uitsondering van ’n handjievol spioene en verraaiers, sou die hele dorp aan ons kant wees.
Met die hoofstraat af na die Canea-hek toe, was daar geen voorval nie. Maar toe ons nader aan die groot wagtoring gekom het, waar die Duitsers die pad met anti-tenk sementblokke in ’n bottelnek vernou het, was daar nie net die normale aantal wagte nie, maar ook ’n groot aantal soldate in die hekopening. Die soldaat wat die rooi flitslig heen en weer geswaai het, het nie uit die pad beweeg nie – dit het gelyk of hulle ons gaan stop. Die spanning in die kar het die hoogte ingeskiet. Billy het stadiger gery – ons het ons op so ’n gebeurlikheid goed voorberei – sy outomatiese pistool was oorgehaal en op sy skoot. Myne was alreeds byderhand, en agter het ons die geklik van die grendels van die drie Marlin-gewere gehoor soos hulle oorgehaal is. Toe ons amper op hulle was, en een van die wagte nadergestap het, het ek die venster afgerol en geskree: “General se Wagen!”
Die woorde “General se Wagen” is gebiedend van een mond na die ander oorgedra, en die flitslig is net betyds laat sak. Billy het sy voet op die versneller gesit, die soldate het teruggestaan en gesalueer, en die wagte het op aandag gespring. Dit alles is met ’n growwe en stroewe goeienag erken, en ons het deurgery. Ons het deur die ander kontrolepunte geseil, en alles het glad verloop. (Die kar se insittendes het altesaam van die begin tot die einde twee en twintig getel.) Uiteindelik was die kontrolepunte en die lang onreëlmatig verspreide woonbuurtes agter die rug, en het ons al dreunende die pad na Retimo toe gevat met die hoofligte wat net rotse en olyfboorde verlig het. Berg-Ida het aan ons linkerkant die hoogte ingeskiet en die see wat net onderskei kon word, het rustig aan ons onderkant geglinster.
’n Oproerige gemoedstemming en ’n gejuig het agter in die kar losgebars. Ons kon weereens praat, lag en beduie, en uiteindelik kon ons sing, so hard as wat ons kon. Ons het mekaar sigarette aangebied en ook vir die generaal. Hulle het hom so gerieflik as moontlik gemaak. Ek het hom sy hoed teruggegee, en hom gevra om sy erewoord te gee dat hy nie sou probeer om te ontvlug nie. Tot my verligting het hy dit gegee. Ek het Billy toe heel plegtig aan hom voorgestel. Hy het geen Duits geken nie en die generaal geen Engels nie, en so was die hoflikhede in Frans uitgeruil, hoewel van beide kante af, nie juis te bedrewe nie.
’n Rukkie later het die generaal vorentoe geleun en gesê: “Sagen Sie einmal, Herr Major, was für ein Zweck hat dieses Husarenstück?” (Sê my, majoor, wat is die doelwit van hierdie hussar-toertjie?) ’n Netelige vraag. (Ons het verby die verlate khan van Yeni Gave, na aan ons eerste bestemming slegs twintig myl van Herakleion af, beweeg. Maar omdat die pad sleg was, was dit alreeds na elf in die nag.) Ek het aan die generaal gesê dat ek die volgende dag sou verduidelik.
Sedert Yanni van die toneel af verdwyn het, het ons geen plaaslike gids gehad nie, maar Strati het as jong polisieman in die omgewing diens gedoen, en ek en Manoli het darem so ’n bietjie kennis gehad. Ons het aan die einde van ’n bokpaadjie stilgehou. Ná ’n paar uur se klim, kon ’n mens daarmee by Anoyeia uitkom. Ons het almal uitgeklim en George het die boeie ontsluit. Die generaal was verontrus toe hy gesien het dat ek saam met George sou gaan. (“Gaan jy my hier alleen laat met hierdie … mense?”) Ek het hom vertel dat die Hauptmann in beheer sou wees, en dat Manoli baie spesiaal na hom sou omsien. Dit het dubbelsinnig geklink, maar daar was iets in Manoli se houding wat vertroue ingeboesem het. Die groep sou net buite Anoyeia op ons lê en wag. Manoli en Strati het geweet met wie om kontak te maak vir kos en boodskappers, en vir boodskappe na ons naaste draadloosstasies. Ek het gesalueer en die generaal het dieselfde gedoen. (Dit was vir my belangrik om hierdie enkele item van formaliteit in ons ietwat Boheemse eenheid daar te stel.) Billy en die generaal het die opdraande begin klim met Strati voor en Manoli wat die agterhoede gedek het – met sy geweer in die waai van sy arm.
Vanaf die berghang was daar ’n gelag hoorbaar toe, uiteindelik, nadat die kar ’n paar maal gaan staan en stol het, dit met die pad af na ondertoe gestamp en geskud-geloop het – ek het net daarin geslaag om die ding oor die twee myl, wat gelei het na die begin van die paadjie wat verby die dorpie van Helenia geloop het, te kry. Vandaar het dit verder aangehou, na die duikbootbaai en die klein eilandjie van Peristeri. Ons het die kar duidelik sigbaar in die pad gelos. Die vloer was doelbewus vol stompies van Player’s-sigarette gelos. Hierdie leidrade was verder ondersteun deur ’n baret van die Invalsmagte (“Wie waag, wen”), en ’n Agatha Christie slapbandboek. Ons het die paadjie losgewoel, en toe daarmee afgeloop en ’n ronde blikkie Player’s geplant, en nog verder die omhulsel van ’n Cadbury melksjokolade. (As ons maar net ’n matroospet ook kon gehad het!) Die brief aan die Duitse outoriteite (wat dit benadruk het dat dit die werk van die Engelse was, nie die Kretensers nie, met die doel om weerwraak op die gemeenskap te vermy) was heel prominent aan die voorste sitplek vasgesteek. Toe – ons kon dit nie weerstaan nie – het elkeen van ons een van die vlae, wat sulke goeie diens vir ons gedoen het, afgebreek. Ek het myne vir George gegee, wat altwee gewaai het terwyl hy gesê het: “Gebuite baniere!” en dit toe in sy sakouli, sy kleurvolle geweefde rugsak, ingeprop het met net die staalpenne wat uitgesteek het.
Daar was geen pad nie. Soos die kraai vlieg, was dit net vyf of ses myl Anoyeia toe, maar vir ons was dit drie keer so vêr: bergklowe, afgronde, bossies en dorings. Gelukkig was daar ’n nuwemaan. Die enigste mense wat ons gedurende die hele nag gesien het, was twee seuns met naaldefakkels wat jag gemaak het op palings in ’n stroompie. Ons het hulle van veraf gegroet en hulle kon ons die regte paadjie uitwys. Elke uur of so het ons gaan rus vir ’n rookbreek. Die nag was gevul met krieke, paddas en nagtegale. Die sneeu op die Ida-berg het in die lug geglinster, en nie een van ons twee kon dit heeltemal glo, dat, in hierdie rustige en leë omgewing, die gebeurtenisse van die nag werklik plaasgevind het nie.
Die aankoms van die daeraad is deur die geklingel van bokklokkies in die valleie van die voorheuwels wat aan die ontwaak was, aangekondig. Net bokant ons, kon ons die wit huise van Anoyeia sien, wat soos ’n fort boaan die hoë trook rotshange uitgesprei was.
Shaken Not Stirred
From Abducting A General
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Micky produced German uniforms for Billy and me – I can’t remember where from. They were their summer field grey. He had got some campaign ribbons and badges, lance corporal’s stripes and caps – all quite convincing enough for the short time they would be seen. He even had a traffic policeman’s stick with a red and white tin disc. We tried them on with our own Colt automatics on the webbing belts, with their Gott Mit Uns buckles, and with commando daggers as side-arms.
~
The two corporals stood in the middle of the road, facing the junction, Billy right and I left. In a few moments, a car was slowly turning the corner, with stiff coloured pennants on both mudguards. Billy waved his disc, and I moved my red torch to and fro, and shouted ‘Halt!’ The car came to a standstill, and we stepped right and left out of the beams of the headlights, which, in spite of being partly blacked out, were very bright, and walked slowly, each to his appointed door. The two flags were there, but perhaps only the driver was inside.
Through the open window I could discern the gold braid, and the Knight’s Cross, and a white face between. I saluted and said: ‘Papier, bitte schön.’ The General, with an officer-to-man smile, reached for his breast pocket, and I opened the door with a jerk. This was the cue for the rest of the party to break cover, and the inside of the car was flooded with light. I then shouted ‘Hände hoch!’ and with one hand thrust my automatic against the General’s chest – there was a gasp of surprise – flinging the other round his body, and pulling him out of the car. I felt a vigorous blow from his fist, and a moment later he was lashing out in the arms of Manoli, and, as there were no passengers, of Antoni P. and Grigori as well. After a brief struggle, and a storm of protest and imprecation in German, the General was securely bound, Manoli’s manacles were on his wrists, and he was being hoisted bodily into the back of the car. Manoli and George leapt in on either side, and Strati followed them. The doors were slammed shut, and gun barrels were sticking out of the windows. I picked up the General’s hat, which had come off in the struggle, jumped into the General’s empty seat, slammed the door, and put his hat on.
Billy was already calmly at the wheel, door shut and engine running. Half a second after I had opened the righthand door, Billy had wrenched open the left. The driver, alarmed at the sudden chaos, reached for the Luger on his belt. Billy struck him hard over the head with a ‘life preserver’, George pulled him out of the car, and Billy jumped in, glanced at the petrol gauge, checked the handbrake, and found the engine still turned on. George and Antoni Z. carried the driver, temporarily knocked out and bleeding, to the cover of the ditch. (When the two Antonis, Grigori and Niko set off with him – we were to meet on Mount Ida in two days – he was able to walk, but groggily.) Micky and Mitzo had rushed from their stations and suddenly, except for Elias, the whole party was there, leaning into the car, or already inside it. Micky was craning through a window, shaking his fist and passionately shouting, ‘Long live freedom!’ ‘Long live Greece!’ ‘Long live England!’ and, menacingly, at the General, ‘Down with Germany!’ I begged him to stop, moved by our captive’s look of alarm – there was already a daunting commando dagger at his throat.
A delirious excess of cheers, hugs, slaps on the back, shouts and laughter held us all in its grip for a few seconds. I suddenly noticed that the inside light was still on. Our very odd group was lit up like a magic lantern, so, as there was no visible switch, I hit it with my pistol-butt, and reassuring darkness hid us once more. Billy released the brake, and we drove off, exchanging farewells with the two parties remaining on foot. (When the others had left, Micky and Elias would hide their gear, clear up any give-away clues, dust over all signs of strife, then head for Herakleion, and, when the news broke, set helpful rumours flying.) All these doings, which need time to record, had only taken, from the time we signalled to the car, seventy seconds. Everyone had been perfect.
Less than a minute later, from the opposite direction, a convoy was bearing down on us. Two trucks – full of soldiers sitting with their rifles between their knees, some in steel helmets, some in field caps – rumbled past. Our voices sank to a sober whisper. We had only been just in time.
The General was still dazed. ‘Where is my hat?’ he kept asking. I had to tell him where.
In a few minutes we were driving through Knossos and, as we approached the Villa Ariadne, the two sentries presented arms. A third, warned by a fourth, raised the striped barrier. They must have been surprised when we drove on, but the sentries stamped back to stand-at-ease. I knelt on the seat, lent over the back, and said the words I had been rehearsing, as slowly and as earnestly as I could: ‘Herr General, I am a British Major. Beside me is a British Captain. The men beside you are Greek patriots. They are good men. I am in command of this unit, and you are an honourable prisoner of war. We are taking you away from Crete to Egypt. For you, the war is over. I’m sorry we had to be so rough. Do everything I say, and all will be well.’
This little speech had a strong effect. ‘Sind sie wirklich ein Britischer Major?’
‘Ja wirklich, Herr General. Sie haben gar nichts zü fürchten.’ He again bewailed the loss of his hat, and I promised to return it. ‘Danke, danke, Herr Major.’
He was still shaken, but improving.
Geskommel Nie Geroer
Uit Abducting A General
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
Micky het Duitse uniforms vir my en vir Billy te voorskyn gehaal. Waarvandaan kan ek nie onthou nie. Dit was hulle somerse veldgrys. Hy het ’n paar krygsdekorasies, kentekens, lanskorporaalstrepe en pette gehad – alles heel oortuigend vir die kort rukkie wat hulle sigbaar sou wees. Hy het selfs ’n verkeerspolisieman se stok, met rooi en wit metaalskywe, gehad. Ons het dit met ons outomatiese Colt-wapens, aan die seilgordels met hulle Gott Mitt Uns-gespes, en kommando-dolke en sywapens, uitgetoets.
~
Die twee korporaals het in die middel van die pad gestaan met hulle gesigte in die rigting van die aansluitingspunt – Billy regs en ek links. Ná ’n klein rukkie het ’n kar met stywe gekleurde vlaggies op beide modderskerms, stadig om die hoek aangery gekom. Billy het sy metaalskyf gewaai en ek het my rooi flitslig heen en weer beweeg, en “Halt!” geskree. Die kar het tot stilstand gekom, en ons het na die linker en die regterkant van die hoofligte se strale beweeg. Ten spyte daarvan dat ons gedeeltelik in die donkerte was, was ons helder verlig, en het ons stadig, elkeen na sy aangewese deur, gestap. Die twee vlaggies was daar, maar miskien was slegs die bestuurder binne-in.
Deur die oop venster kon ek die goue koord, die Ridderkruis en ’n wit gesig onderskei. Ek het gesalueer en gesê: “Papier, bitte schön.” Die generaal het, met ’n offisier–na-manskap-glimlag, sy hand na sy binnesak gesteek, en toe het ek die deur met ’n ruk oopgemaak. Dit was wenk vir die res van die span om uit hulle skuiling te spring, en die binnekant van die kar is daarop helder verlig. Toe het ek “Hände hoch!” geskree, en met een hand my outomatiese pistool teen die generaal se bors gedruk – daar was ’n gesnak van verbasing – en toe die ander arm om sy lyf gegooi, en hom uit die kar getrek. Ek het ’n kragtige hou van sy vuis gevoel en ’n oomblik later het hy in Manoli se arms geworstel, en omdat daar geen ander passasiers was nie, in Antoni P. en Grigori s’n ook. Na ’n kort worsteling, en ’n storm van verset en vervloeking in Duits, was die generaal stewig vasgebind – Manoli se boeie was om sy gewrigte, en hy is opgetel en agter in die kar gesit. Manoli en George het aan die teenoorgestelde kante ingespring, en Strati het hulle gevolg. Die deure is toegeklap en die geweerlope het by die vensters uitgesteek. Ek het die generaal se hoed, wat in die gestoei afgeval het, opgetel, in die generaal se leë sitplek gespring, die deur toegeslaan, en sy hoed opgesit.
Billy was reeds, heel kalm, voor die stuurwiel, met die deur toe en die enjin aan die luier. ’n Halwe sekonde nadat ek die regterkantste deur oopgemaak het, het Billy die linkerkant oopgepluk. Die bestuurder, wat hoogs onthuts was deur die skielike chaos, het sy hand uitgesteek na die Luger aan sy lyfband. Billy het hom met ’n pistool hard oor die kop geslaan. George het hom uit die kar gesleep en Billy het ingespring, vinnig na die brandstofmeter gekyk, die handrem getoets, en gesien dat die enjin steeds aan die loop was. George en Antoni Z. het die bestuurder, wat tydelik uitgeslaan en aan die bloei was, uitgedra na die beskutting van ’n voor toe. (Toe die twee Antoni’s, Grigori en Niko, met hom aan die wegneem was – ons sou weer oor twee dae op die berg Ida ontmoet – was dit moontlik vir hom om te loop, maar nog taamlik onvas.) Micky en Mitzo het vanuit hulle posisies nadergehaas en skielik, behalwe vir Elias, was die hele span daar besig om by die kar in te leun, of alreeds binne-in. Micky het by ’n venster ingehang, sy gebalde vuis geskud en hartstogtelik geskree: “Lank lewe vryheid!” “Lank lewe Griekeland!” en, al dreigende terwyl hy na die generaal gekyk het: “Weg met Duitsland!” Die gevangene se ontsteltenis het my beweeg om hom te soebat om dit te staak – daar was alreeds ’n angswekkende kommando-dolk teen die generaal se keel.
Opgetoë, oorvloedige toejuigings, omhelsings en kloppe op die rûe, ’n geskreëry en gelag het ons vir ’n paar sekondes in sy greep vasgevang. Ek het skielik opgemerk dat die binnelig nog steeds gebrand het: die lig het op ons heel sonderlinge groep soos ’n towerlantern geskyn. Omdat daar nie ’n skakelaar sigbaar was nie, het ek dit met die kolf van my pistool bygekom, en die gerusstellende donkerte het ons omvou. Billy het die rem losgemaak en ons het weggery terwyl ons die twee te-voet-groepe vaarwel toegeroep het. (Met die ander uit die pad, sou Micky en Elias die uitrusting wegsteek, opruiming doen van enige tekens wat ons kon verklap, alle tekens van ’n stryd wegvee, en dan die pad vat Herakleion toe. Wanneer die nuus bekend sou raak, sou hulle hulpvaardige riemtelegramme die lig laat sien.) Al dié gebeurtenisse, wat tyd nodig gehad het om neer te pen, het, vanaf ons die kar die sein gegee het om te stop, slegs sewentig sekondes geneem. Almal was perfek.
Minder as ’n minuut later, vanuit die teenoorgestelde rigting, het ’n konvooi op ons afgepyl. Twee vragmotors vol soldate – met hulle gewere tussen hulle knieë, sommige met stormhoede, party met veldpette op – het verby ons gedreun. Ons stemme was net ’n gematigde fluistering. Ons het dit net gemaak.
Die generaal was steeds verbysterd. “Waar is my hoed?” het hy aanhoudend gevra. Ek het hom toe maar vertel waar dit was.
Ná ’n paar minute het ons deur Knossos gery, en toe ons Villa Ariadne genader het, het twee wagte wapens gepresenteer en ’n derde, deur ’n vierde wag aangesê, het die slagboom opgelig. Hulle moes verras gewees het toe ons aangery het, maar die wagte het weer na hulle op-die-plek-rus-posisie teruggestamp. Ek het op die sitplek gekniel, na agtertoe oorgeleun, en die woorde wat ek ingeoefen het, stadig en so ernstig as wat ek kon, gesê: “Herr Generaal, ek is ’n Britse majoor. Langs my is ’n Britse kaptein. Die manne langs jou is Griekse patriotte. Hulle is goeie mense. Ek is in beheer van dié afdeling, en jy is ’n eerbare krygsgevangene. Ons vat jou weg van Kreta af na Egipte toe. Vir jou is die oorlog verby. Ek is jammer dat ons jou so hardhandig behandel het. Doen alles wat ek sê, en dit sal met jou goed gaan.”
Dié klein toesprakie het ’n kragtige uitwerking gehad. “Sind sie wirklich ein Britischer Major?”
“Ja wirklich, Herr Generaal. Sie haben gar nichts zü fürchten.” Hy het weer begin weeklaag oor sy verlore hoed, en ek het belowe dat ek dit sou terugbesorg. “Danke, danke, Herr Major.”
Hy was nog steeds geskud, maar dit het al beter gegaan.
Nimble, Fast And Elaborate
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
The plan was beginning to take shape: Billy and I would stop the car, dressed up as Feldpolizei corporals. Sometimes, but seldom, there was a motorcycle escort; and sometimes, other cars would accompany him. All this, assuming that the ambush was a success, would land us with an unwieldy mob of prisoners, unless the attack could be launched or scrubbed in accordance with last-minute information. There was also the danger of stopping the wrong car.
~
The risk from passing traffic still remained, possibly of trucks full of troops. Here we would have to trust to improvisation, luck, speed and darkness, and, if the worst happened, diversion by a party of guerrillas – un-lethal bursts of fire, flares all over the place, shoutings, mule carts and logs suddenly blocking the road to create confusion and cover our getaway with our prize. Still with reprisals in mind, we would only shoot to hurt as a last resort. It was vital for us to get into the mountains and among friends, away from the enemy-infested plain, and in the right direction for escape by sea, at high speed.
~
Many gaps and problems remained. Sending letters back to our base to cheer up Billy and the rest of the party, I spent the next days inside Herakleion with Micky and Elias, and our other old helpers, shifting from one friendly house to another, exploring the streets and entrances and exits of the great walled town, between twilight and curfew. Vaguely, as yet, an unorthodox method of getaway was beginning to form. Between whiles, there were secret meetings, not directly connected with the operation, with the group who ran the resistance and the information network in the city – doctors, dentists, lawyers, teachers, headmasters, reserve officers, artisans, functionaries and students of either sex, shopkeepers and the clergy, including the Metropolitan Eugenius himself – and visits to other cellars, reached through hidden doors and secret passages, where a devoted team reduplicated the BBC news for hand to hand distribution. (Ownership of an ordinary wireless set was punished by death.)
After months in the mountains, there was something bracing about these descents into the lions’ den: the swastika flags everywhere, German conversation in one’s ears, and the constant rubbing shoulders with enemy soldiers in the streets. The outside of Gestapo headquarters, particularly, which had meant the doom of many friends, held a baleful fascination.
Back at Knossos, Micky and I were talking to some friends of his in a ‘safe’ house when three German sergeants lurched in, slightly tipsy from celebrating Easter. Wine was produced; and Micky explained away the English cigarettes (brought in by Billy) which he had offered them by mistake, as black market loot from the battle in the Dodecanese. A deluge of wine covered up this contretemps, followed by attempts, bearishly mimicked by our guests, to teach them to dance a Cretan pentozali, in which we all joined.
Before rejoining the others in the mountains, we were standing with a shepherd and his flock, having a last look at Point A, when a large car came slowly round the corner. There were triangular flags on either mudguard, one tin one striped red, white and black, the other field grey, framed in nickel and embroidered with the Wehrmacht eagle in gold wire. Inside, next to the chauffeur, unmistakable from the gold on his hat, the red tabs with the gold oak leaves, the many decorations and the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross round his neck on a riband – sat the General himself: a broad pale face with a jutting chin and blue eyes. I waved. Looking rather surprised at so unaccustomed a gesture from a wayside shepherd, the General gravely raised a gloved hand in acknowledgement, and our eyes crossed. It was an odd moment and, we thought, as we watched the car disappearing, a good omen.
~
I got back to the hideout at last on 16 April, which was Orthodox Easter Sunday, the greatest feast of the Greek year. Everyone was in high spirits. There was a paschal lamb roasting whole, and a demijohn of wine, for us all to celebrate our reunion and Orthodox Easter with a feast, and singing and dancing. Scores of hard-boiled eggs dyed red were clashed together like conkers, with cries of ‘Christ is risen’ and ‘He is risen indeed’. Those left over were propped up in a row and shot down for pistol practice. When all of them were smashed, after every toast, pistol magazines were joyfully emptied into the air in honour of the Resurrection. Though all the canyons sent the echoes ricocheting into the distance, the noise was quite safe in this dizzy wilderness. Anyway, Cretans are always blazing away.
I was sorry nobody had a lyra – the light, three-stringed Cretan viol, or rather Rebeck, carved from beech and played on the knee with a semicircular bow – as George was an expert player. Siphoyannis had brought several neighbouring shepherds, however, and the dancing to our songs, underlined with clapping, was nimble, fast and elaborate.
Rats, Vinnig En Fyn Afgerond
Uit Abducting A General
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
Die plan was besig om vorm aan te neem. Ek en Billy sou soos korporaals van die Feldpolizei aangetrek wees, en die kar so stop. Soms, maar baie selde, was daar ’n motorfietseskort; en soms het ander karre hom begelei. Sulke gebeurtenisse, gegewe dat die hinderlaag ’n sukses sou wees, sou ’n klomp moeilik hanteerbare gevangenes in ons hande laat beland, tensy die aanval van stapel gestuur of afgelas kon word op die basis van onmiddelike inligting. En daar was altyd die gevaar dat die verkeerde kar gestop sou word.
~
Die risiko van verbygaande verkeer – moontlik trokke vol troepe – het onopgelos gebly. Hier sou ons dan moes terugval op improvisasie, geluk, spoed en donkerte, en sou die ergste gebeur, skynaksie deur ’n groep van ons guerrillas – nie-noodlottige skote wat afgevuur kon word, orals ligfakkels, ’n geskreeuery, muilkarre, en stompe wat skielik die pad kon blokkeer en verwarring veroorsaak, sodat ons wegkomplan met ons prys ongesteurd uitgevoer kon word. Met weerwraakmaatreëls steeds in gedagte, sou ons slegs as ’n laaste uitweg skiet. Dit was noodsaaklik vir ons om in die berge tussen vriende weg te kom, weg van die vlaktes waar dit gewemel het van die vyand, en in die regte rigting om teen ’n hoë spoed seewaarts te ontsnap.
~
Ons planne was nog vol leemtes en probleme. Ek het die volgende paar dae in Herakleion saam met Micky en Elias en van ons ander ou helpers gebly, en ek het briewe aan ons basis teruggestuur om Billy en die res van die span op te beur. Ek het van die een vriend se huis na die ander verskuif terwyl ek tussen skemer en die aandklokreëling die strate, ingange en uitgange van die reuse ommuurde dorp verken het. Vaagweg het ’n onortodokse manier van wegkom vorm begin aanneem. Elke af en toe was daar geheime vergaderings, nie direk in verband met die operasie nie, maar met die groep in beheer van die weerstand en die netwerk van inligting in die stad – dokters, tandartse, regsgeleerdes, onderwysers, skoolhoofde, reserwe-offisiere, vakmanne, amptenare en studente van beide geslagte, winkeliers en geestelikes, wat ook die Metropolitaanse Eugenie homself ingesluit het – en besoeke aan ander kelders, wat deur weggesteekte deure en geheime ingange bereik kon word, waar ’n toegewyde span die BBC-nuus herdupliseer het vir hand-tot-hand verspreiding. (Eienaars van gewone draadloosstelle is ter dood veroordeel.)
Ná maande in die berge, was daar iets verfrissend aan dié afdaling na die leeu se lêplek: die vlae met die swastika wat oral gewapper het, Duitse geselsery in ’n mens se ore, en die onophoudelike skouergeskuurdery in die strate met die soldate van die vyand. Die buitekant van die Gestapo-hoofkwartier in besonder, wat die ondergang van baie vriende beteken het, het ’n onheilspellende fassinering ingehou.
Terug by Knossos was ek en Micky besig om met sy vriende in ’n “veilige” huis te gesels toe drie Duitse sersante ingeslinger gekom het, ietwat onder die invloed met die viering van Pase. Wyn is uitgehaal; en Micky het die Engelse sigarette (wat Billy ingebring het) wat hy hulle per abuis aangebied het, probeer wegpraat as swartmark-buit, afkomstig van die slag in die Dodekanesos. ’n Vloed van wyn het hierdie contretemps laat verdamp, wat opgevolg is deur pogings om hulle ’n Kretense pentozali te leer dans, lomp en beeragtig deur ons gaste nageboots, waaraan ons almal deelgeneem het.
Voor ons weer by die ander in die berge aangesluit het, het ons by ’n veewagter en sy trop ’n laaste keer na Punt A gaan kyk, toe ’n groot kar stadig om die hoek aangery gekom het. Daar was driehoekige vlae op al twee die modderskerms, een uit blik gemaak met rooi, wit en swart strepe, die ander vaalgrys, met ’n vernikkelde raam en geborduur met die Wehrmacht se arend in goue draad. Binne in, langs die chauffeur, onmiskenbaar van die goud in sy hoed, die rooi skouerlussies met die goue eikeblare, die baie dekorasies en die Ridderkruis van die Ysterkruis met ’n lint om sy nek – het die generaal homself gesit: ’n breë bleek gesig met ’n uitstaande ken en blou oë. Ek het gewaai. Terwyl hy ietwat verras gelyk het om so ’n ongewone gebaar van ’n veewagter langs die pad te sien, het die generaal plegtig in herkenning sy gehandskoende hand opgelig, en ons het mekaar in die oë gekyk. Dit was ’n rare, koddige oomblik en, het ons gedink terwyl ons die kar sien verdwyn het, ’n goeie voorteken.
~
Uiteindelik het ek op 16 April teruggekeer na die skuilplek toe. Dit was die Ortodokse Paassondag, die grootste feesdag van die Griekse jaar. Almal was opgeruimd en uitgelate. Daar was ’n hele paaslam besig om te braai, en ’n karba wyn, vir ons om ons reünie en die Ortodokse Paassondag te vier met ’n fees en sang en dans. Talle rooigeverfde hardgekookte eiers was teen mekaar gestamp soos wildekastaiings met uitroepe van “Christus het opgestaan” en “Hy het inderdaad opgestaan”. Die eiers wat oorgebly het, is in ’n ry staangemaak en afgeskiet vir pistooloefening. Ná hulle almal flenters was, ná elke heildronk, is die magasyne van die pistole vrolik die lug in leeggeskiet ter ere van die Opstanding. Hoewel al die canyons die eggo’s in die verte laat weergalm het, was die lawaai in hierdie duiselingwekkende wildernis heeltemal veilig. Die Kretensers het in elk geval altyd maar skote afgetrek.
Ek was jammer dat niemand ’n lier gehad het nie – die ligte Kretense viool, of liewer Rebeck, met drie snare, uit beukehout gekerf en wat op die knie met ’n halfsirkelboog gespeel word – omdat George ’n uithaler speler was. Siphoyannis het egter ’n hele klomp naburige veewagters saamgebring, en die gedans op die wysie van ons liedere, beklemtoon deur die klap van hande, was rats, vinnig en fyn afgerond.
The Dash, Generosity and Warmth of the Cretans
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
At last, on the night of 4 April, the sound of a ship’s engine answered our third night of torch signals; soon a sailor in a rubber dingy was sculling into the cove, and throwing a rope. In no time our evacuees were aboard, the ship vanished into the dark, and there, on the rocks, almost unbelievably after all our troubles, were Billy, Manoli and George. We loaded the stuff on the mules, said goodbye to Vasili Konios, our protector in the area, and headed inland for the long climb to comparative safety; settling at last in a high ravine full of oleanders, with the sea shining far below.
There was little sleep for the remainder of the night, or the next day; there was too much to talk about. Raki and wine appeared, and two sheep were slaughtered and roasted. Spring had suddenly burst over the island and the aromatic smell of herbs had hit the newcomers miles out in the Libyan sea. As I had hoped, Billy was amazed by the spectacular ranges all round, and was becoming impressed by the dash, hospitality, kindness and humour of the Cretans.
~
Our unwieldy caravan could only move by night. We left at dusk, and a long trudge up and down deep ravines, halting now and then at a waterfall or a friendly sheepfold, brought us to Skoinia, where we lay up in Mihali’s house. A day and a night were lost here, thanks to the visits of a string of our local leaders, including the huge Kapetan Athanasios Bourdzalis, who reappears later in these pages, and the arrival, in her mother’s arms, of a little god-daughter of mine. All this gave rise to a banquet and songs, this time with well-placed sentries, from which we rose for an all-night march north-east across half the width of the island and over the dangerous edge of the Messara plain; circling round garrisoned towns, and using the device, in unoccupied ones, of barking ‘Halt!’, “Marsch!’, or ‘Los!’ in the streets, and raucously singing ‘Bomber über England’, ‘Lili Marlene’ or the ‘Horstwessellied’, to spread ambiguity about the nature of our party.
At one point light rain filled the lowlands with flickering lights: hundreds of village women were out gathering snails brought out by the shower. Before dawn we reached the lofty village of Kastamonitza and the shelter of the family of Kimon Zographakis, who had been with us from the coast; a young man of great spirits and pluck and a former guide on commando raids. The generosity and warmth of all his family was doubly remarkable, as an elder brother had recently been captured and shot for his resistance work. We had to stay indoors by day, as there was a German hospital in the village: enemy voices and footsteps sounded below the windows. The upper chamber became a busy headquarters of sorting maps and gear, and sending and receiving runners; being hopelessly spoiled all the while by our hosts, and their sons and daughters.
~
High in the mountains above Kastamonitza, in a cyclopean cave among the crags and ilex woods, overlooking the whole plain of Kastelli Pediada, lived Siphoyannis, and old goat-herd and a true friend: the very place for the party to hide for a few days, while I went to Herakleion to spy out the land. I reinforced the party with two additions here, older than the rest, tough, robust, cheerful and unshakeable: Antoni Papaleonidas, originally from Asia Minor, who worked as a stevedore in Herakleion, and Grigori Chnarakis, a farmer from Thrapsano, just beneath us. (Both became god-brothers of mine later. Such a relationship – synteknos in Crete, koumbares in Greece – is important and binding. One becomes a synteknos by baptising, or by standing best man to, somebody’s son or daughter.) The year before, Grigori Chnarakis had saved, in spectacular fashion, two British airmen who had baled out of a burning bomber. (One of them, Flight Sergeant Jo Bradley, before he was evacuated, became my signaller for several months, after my former signaller, Apostolos Evanghelo or Leros, had been captured and executed by the enemy.)
The party – Billy, Manoli, George, Grigori and Antoni, with Kimon as liason with the village (and, by runner, with me in Herakleion) and with Siphojannis’s vigilence up in those goat-rocks, near a good spring and with a whole flock to eat – would be as secure as eagles. Everyone had taken to Billy at once, and he to them. He had abandoned his battledress with shoulder tapes for breeches and a black shirt, and the cover name of Dimitri.
Meanwhile another runner – they usually carried their messages in their boots or in their turbans – had brought Micky Akoumianakis hot foot from Herakleion. He was about my age, intelligent and well educated – none of the rest of the party were great penmen – and the head of our information network in Herakleion. By great luck, he lived next door to the Villa Ariadne at Knossos, just outside Herakleion; the large house, that is, built by Sir Arthur Evans for the excavation and restoration of the great Minoan site. Micky’s father, now dead, had been Sir Arthur’s overseer and henchman for many years. The villa was now the abode of General Kreipe.
My dress was readjusted by the family to look like a countryman’s visiting the big city: bleached moustache and eyebrows were darkened with burnt cork. Dye sometimes runs, striping one’s face like a zebra’s. There are many Cretans fairer than me, but the Germans looked at them askance and often asked for their papers, thinking they might be British, New Zealand or Australian stragglers disguised. My documents were made out to Mihali Phrangidakis, 27, cultivator, of Amari. We said goodbye and set off, boarding the ramshackle bus from Kastrelli; there were a few country people taking vegetables and poultry to market in Herakleion. The conductor was a friend. But my Greek, though fast and adequate, was capable of terrible give-away blunders, so I feigned sleep. The only other vehicles were German trucks, cars and motorcycles. We were stopped at one of the many road-blocks approaching Herakleion, and two Feldpolizei corporals asked for our papers. About dusk, we were safe in Mihali’s house in Knossos, peering out of the window with his sister.
The fence began a few yards away, and there, in its decorative jungle of trees and shrubs, with the German flag flying from the roof, stood the Villa. Formidable barbed wire surrounded it. (I had been inside it once, during the Battle of Crete, when it was an improvised hospital full of Allied – and German – wounded and dying.) We could see the striped barrier across the drive and the sentry boxes, where the steel-helmeted guard was being changed. Enemy traffic rumbled past, to Herakleion, three miles away. Due south rose the sharp crag of Mount Jouchtas; to the west and south soared the tremendous snow-capped massif of Mount Ida, the birthplace of Zeus. North, beyond the dust of the city, lay the Aegean sea and the small island of Dia. East of the road, on the flank of a chalk-white valley, dotted with vines, the bulbous blood-red pillars descended, the great staircase of the Palace, and giant hewn ashlars, slotted for double-axes, of King Minos.
~
To avoid all excuse or pretext for reprisals on the Cretans, I was determined that the operations should be performed without bloodshed. The only thing was to waylay the General on his way home from his Divisional Headquarters at Ano Archanes, five miles away, and, to gain time, plant his beflagged car as a false scent.
