Jackals’ Revenge. Iain Gale

      ‘To be honest, I was just wondering the same thing myself.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll find some lovely house somewhere. You officers always land on your feet.’

      There was a loud and insistent ‘parp’ from a car horn. ‘That’ll be for me, I expect. Better go. Mustn’t keep them waiting. See you soon, I hope, Captain. And thank you for all your help.’

      She shook his hand and then ran off towards where Hartley and the others were waiting in two long, elegant, highly polished convertibles. Watching her go, Lamb smiled and summed up their current situation to himself.

      They were standing on a narrow harbour-front street of Italianate villas with neat, walled gardens of palm and lemon trees. Two cafés sat directly opposite each other on a corner, their gaudy awnings draped over rows of empty chairs. The larger of the two bore a sign: ‘Plaza Bar Tourist Hotel’. Lamb pointed to it. ‘Sarnt-Major. Ten minutes’ rest. Sit the men down over there.’

      ‘All right you lot. Ten minutes. Savvy?’

      As the men fell out and rested on chairs which until only recently had been occupied by holidaymakers, Lamb turned. ‘Valentine, you seem well versed in the area. Tell me exactly where we are.’

      ‘Place called Canea, sir. It’s an old Venetian trading port. Popular with the tourist trade. Very picturesque.’

      ‘So I see. Where’s Mr Wentworth?’

      ‘Over there, sir. Eating an ice cream.’

      Lamb walked across to the lieutenant. ‘Wentworth, are we all present and accounted for?’

      Wentworth, who was licking slowly at a spoonful of ice cream, straightened up. ‘I think so, sir.’

      Lamb smirked. ‘Think so is not quite what I asked, Lieutenant. What are our numbers?’

      ‘Thirty-eight, sir. But we have five walking wounded and six with dysentery.’

      ‘Right. So effective strength of twenty-seven.’

      ‘Sir.’

      His company had become a platoon. They were low on rations, had ragged uniforms and few of them were properly armed.

      ‘Weapons?’

      ‘We’re missing twelve rifles. But we do still have the Brens and the two Lewis guns from the boat.’

      He looked at his men. Most, like him, had not shaved for more than a week and the tired, drawn faces and sunken eyes told their own tale of what they had witnessed. As if to emphasise their state, at that moment around the corner came a platoon of British soldiers. They were marching in time, in a column of twos, with a sergeant-major at their head and to the right. As they passed several of Lamb’s men gave them a wolf-whistle but the soldiers did not even look towards them. Lamb searched their uniforms for insignia.

      Fred Smart was standing beside him. ‘Blimey, sir. Who the hell’s that lot? The Coldstream Guards?’

      ‘No, Smart. I would hazard a guess that that’s the Welch Regiment. They’re the official Crete garrison. Well, part of it at least. They weren’t in Greece.’

      ‘I should coco. Sorry, sir.’

      They might look, he thought, as if they had just come off parade at Horse Guards, but Lamb was grateful for their presence and their appearance. It brought him back to order. And despite the wolf-whistles he knew it was just what was needed to restore his men’s confidence in the army. And they desperately needed that now.

      Having reached the quayside, the newcomers stopped and divided into three sections, one of which moved across to Lamb. Their sergeant approached him.

      ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you would be new arrivals, would you?’ He spoke with a just discernible Welsh accent.

      ‘Yes, Sarnt. Just got here.’

      ‘Did you see the major, sir?’

      ‘Yes, thank you, Sarnt. I saw the major.’

      ‘Well, sir, he will have told you, I’m guessing, to go up that road there to the olive groves. Didn’t he? It’s a good mile, sir.’

      Lamb smiled. He knew that ‘a good mile’ meant an ‘army mile’, and an army mile meant any distance you wanted it to mean.

      The man continued. ‘You’ll find a lovely field kitchen, sir, up there. It’s not that far. Each of your men will get a nice mug of tea, some bread and cheese, an orange, some chocolate and some fags. You too, if you want them, sir. The assembly points and your bivvy area will be about seven miles farther on, isn’t it.’

      Lamb wondered if the sergeant meant seven ‘good miles’.

      ‘Thank you, Sarnt. That’s very clear. We’ll set out in five minutes. I’m just letting the men have a rest. We’ve had a bit of a journey.’