Kidnap in Crete Page 16

  The lorries lumbered after them, their big black wheels passing close to the kidnappers, spraying them with grit, diesel fumes belching from the exhausts. In the back, troops sat motionless, their steel helmets and shoulders silhouetted against the night sky, unaware that nine pairs of eyes were watching them like foxes. They jiggled and swayed as the vehicles, followed the motorcycle. A lit cigarette end landed in the road in front of Paterakis and rolled into the ditch at his feet, still glowing red. Further up the road Mitsos and Pavlos Zografistos hunched into their ditch as the vehicles rumbled past.

  Billy Moss, who had fought with the Coldstream Guards in the desert war, found that the experience reminded him of night patrols near enemy trenches when he could hear careless German soldiers talking or whistling quietly, and even see them lighting their cig­arettes, hunched over the flame, trying not to give their position away. He and Leigh Fermor shivered in their German uniforms, which were too thin to protect them from the night wind blowing across the hills. The general was an hour behind schedule.

  At 21.15, Heinrich Kreipe was still immersed in the card game. Glancing at his watch he said he was sorry but he must return to his residence where dinner would be waiting. The other players looked disappointed, Kreipe stood, told them to finish the game and follow on in another car with the ADC. The officers clambered to their feet, saluting as Kreipe left the room and headed for the front door where his driver, Alfred Fenske, waited with the car. From his hiding place in the shadows, Ilias heard the starter motor run and the staff car’s engine kick into life. The shiny black sedan purred up to the orange and white security barrier. The guards came to attention; a soldier swung open the barrier, holding the counterweight in one hand, and saluted with the other as the second most senior officer on Crete passed by on his way home. Fenske nodded to the guards; they were his friends and he had been chatting with them earlier. Kreipe settled into the leather front passenger seat, talking to Fenske, asking him if he thought his instruction to put a security barrier on the junction between the Archanes and the Houdetsi roads had been followed. If he was going to be kidnapped, he said, that would be where it was going to happen; he admitted to Fenske that he had a strange feeling about it. The car disappeared into the night.

  Ilias was certain it was the general: he had seen the number plate which he had memorised days before: WH 563 850. He jumped on his bicycle and pedalled as hard as he could towards his signal point. At the junction Leigh Fermor asked Moss the time: it was 21:30 hours. They wondered whether their quarry was already home, a passenger in one of the Kübelwagens that passed earlier in the evening. Then, from Micky’s position on the hillock, came a torch flash: the car was on its way, unescorted.

  Leigh Fermor and Moss heaved themselves out of the ditch, grabbing the red torch and the tin traffic signal, and sprinted to the centre of the road, brushing grit and leaves from the fronts of their uniforms. Each had a cocked Colt automatic pistol tucked into the back of the ‘Gott Mit Uns’ leather belts. Moss had a ten-inch steel cosh hidden up his sleeve, the bulbous metal end wrapped in plaited leather, its strap twisted round his wrist.

  In the distance they heard the noise of a car changing down. The two men tensed, stood bolt upright and tried to look as official and military as possible. Ahead lights lit up the bend; they hoped that the signalling system had worked and that they were not about to confront a German convoy.

  A car swept round the corner and the other kidnappers got ready to spring. Ilias was right: in spite of the slitted blackout cowls the headlamps were dazzlingly bright. Leigh Fermor and Moss screwed up their eyes against the glare. Moss held up the tin sign, red side towards the car; Leigh Fermor flashed the red torch and held up his hand, shouting ‘Halt!’, his voice almost drowned out by the sound of the engine.

  In the car, Kreipe was pleased to see his orders about the secur­ity barrier had been obeyed. Fenske slowed down, the synchromesh gearbox revving hard as it braked the vehicle. Fenske applied the footbrake and the Opel Kapitän purred to a halt. He pulled on the handbrake and, just as he had been trained, left the engine idling so that he could drive his way out of trouble if anything unexpected happened. Through the windscreen General Kreipe saw the two policemen walking towards him, one on each side of the car, moving past the stiff metal pennants out of the glare of the lights. Fenske did not recognise them. Kreipe got ready to congratulate the men on their efficiency. The driver and passenger windows wound down to reveal the general in a peaked cap, red and gold trim on his uniform collar. Fenske was bare-headed. The two SOE men drew level with the windows, blocking the view of the other kidnappers. Leigh Fermor pulled the automatic from behind his back; Billy Moss let the tapered leather grip of the heavy ‘life preserver’ slide into the palm of his hand.

  Kreipe glanced up and began to smile, Leigh Fermor saluted and leant down, looking across the general at Fenske, asking: ‘Ist dies das Generals Wagen?’

  ‘Ja, Ja,’ replied Fenske.

  Behind the driver’s head Leigh Fermor could see Moss’s belt buckle glinting.

  ‘Papieren bitte,’ said Leigh Fermor, holding out his hand in a respectful manner. The general nodded and reached into his coat pocket for his identity card.

  Instantly, Leigh Fermor and Moss tore open the car doors. The interior light snapped on flooding the driver and his passenger in dazzling white. The andartes leapt out of the ditches and dashed forward. Leigh Fermor grabbed Kreipe by the lapels, knocking off the general’s gold-braided hat. He jammed his automatic into the German’s chest shouting ‘Hände hoch!’ The driver twisted towards Moss, fumbling to drag his Luger from its holster. Moss grabbed the man’s collar and hit him as hard as he could across the temple with the cosh. Fenske sighed and slumped sideways, as if he had been hit with a hammer, blood streaming into his eyes from the gash on his head. Moss dragged him out of the car and Tyrakis ran up, hitting Fenske another hard blow to his head. Together they pulled the man’s body onto the ground, twisting his arms behind his back and snapping handcuffs onto his wrists. Fenske lay in the road, a moaning gurgle coming from his throat. Antonis Zoidakis knelt down and pulled the driver’s Luger from its holster.

  On the other side of the car Kreipe bellowed in rage, trying to break free, cursing and lashing out with his fists and feet, hitting Leigh Fermor violently on the cheek. The Cretans fell on him, shouting and screaming, forcing him to the ground with their weight. Mitsos and Zografistos ran up just in time to join the fight. They too leapt on the general. As Kreipe lay pinned to the ground, Chnarakis handcuffed him and the others tied his legs with rope. The rear doors were wrenched open and they bundled him, head first, struggling and writhing, into the back of the car, forcing him to lie lengthways on the floor. Zografistos saw something glinting on the road, it was the general’s Iron Cross and he scooped it up, unnoticed in the confusion. Giorgios barged past him and leapt into the back, his feet trampling the general, Stratis and Manolis followed, their feet stamping on Kreipe’s chest and shins. They slammed the doors and wound down the windows, their Marlin sub-machine guns poking through ready to spray fire. Chnarakis and Zoidakis dragged the driver to the side of the road, out of the way of the car. Zografistos tried to help them. Fenske’s feet scraped along the ground, his head lolled forward, blood ran down his neck.

  Moss leapt into the driver’s seat, checking that the handbrake was on and that the fuel gauge read full. Leigh Fermor thumped into the passenger seat, pulling Kreipe’s peaked cap onto his head. The general began to struggle again, heaving around; Tyrakis drew his long, sharp, silver-bladed knife and held the point against the officer’s throat, muttering threateningly in Greek. Kreipe stopped resisting.

  By the ditch Zoidakis and Chnarakis tried to get the driver to stand up. At each attempt his knees buckled. Moss depressed the clutch, pushed the car into gear and got ready to take off the handbrake. Leigh Fermor gave his last instructions to the others. They were to go, at once, with Fenske, to meet up with Dunbabin at his wireless base. Micky
pushed everyone aside, his face grotesque through the car window, screaming hysterically in a voice full of venom: ‘Long live freedom. Down with Germany!’ Leigh Fermor pushed him back, shouting at him in Greek to shut up. At the same time he smashed the interior light bulb with his Colt, shards of glass and plastic sprayed the front of the car, then darkness and dead calm descended. Moss released the handbrake, slowly let in the clutch and felt the powerful engine take the weight of the vehicle. Then he revved hard, the rear wheels skidded and they sped off, heading for Heraklion and its 15,000-strong German garrison. In the mirror he could see some of the others dragging Fenske off the road and into the darkness. The ambush had taken less than ninety seconds.

  Inside the Opel, the kidnappers erupted into excited, relieved gabbling, punctuated by the moans of the general, muffled by Giorgios’s hand clamped over his mouth. Ahead of them were headlights, lorries driving towards Archanes. The three guerrillas in the back of the Opel ducked down, the lorries roared past, the soldiers in the trucks sitting bolt upright like toys, rifles between their knees.

  See Notes to Chapter 16

  17

  Through the Checkpoints

  Kreipe began to shout above the noise, repeating over and over in German: ‘Where’s my hat, where’s my hat?’ From his position on the floor, trampled under the feet of the three kidnappers, he could not see that it was on Leigh Fermor’s head.

  After a few minutes they were flagged down by soldiers manning a checkpoint with no barrier. Paterakis, Stratis and Tyrakis crouched low. Giorgios once more clamped his hard mountain farmer’s hand, rough as sandpaper, over the general’s soft mouth, crushing his face between his fingers. Moss slowed down, giving the soldiers a chance to see the pennants on the wings of the car. Then, when they were within yards of the soldiers, he accelerated, passing the checkpoint, tensing in expectation of a rifle bullet blasting through the rear windscreen. The car cruised into a bend and the roadblock vanished behind them. The kidnappers knew that if the guards suspected anything they would telephone ahead to have the vehicle stopped.

  From the floor of the Opel, Kreipe asked how long he was going to be forced to remain in his undignified position. Leigh Fermor lit a cigarette and spoke in German. He told the general that if he was prepared to give his word that he would not shout or do anything to attract attention, then he would be treated as a comrade in arms, not a prisoner. Leigh Fermor found it difficult to make out the general’s muffled reply, but assumed that he had agreed.

  Another security point loomed up. The splendour of the staff car and the sight of the pennants worked the same magic; the kidnap vehicle was waved through, the guards snapping to attention and saluting. Seconds later they were speeding uphill. Ahead of them on the left lay the Villa Ariadne, where Kreipe’s staff were waiting to welcome him home and the kitchen was standing by, ready to serve dinner. The soldiers on the gate heard the car approaching and got ready to raise the barrier; one of them ran towards the house to be there to open the car door and usher the general up the steps. The car drew level with the orange and white security bar, Moss put his hand on the horn and drove past. To the delight of the kidnappers the guards saluted, ramrod straight, staring ahead. Leigh Fermor asked the general if he spoke any English.

  ‘Nein,’ he replied.

  Moss asked if he spoke Russian.

  ‘Nein.’

  ‘Greek?’

  ‘Nein.’

  ‘Parlez-vous français?’

  ‘Un petit peu . . .’

  The two Englishmen could not resist ‘the Cowardesque reply’: ‘I never think that is quite enough.’

  After this interchange they talked to Kreipe in stumbling French which Leigh Fermor translated into Greek for the benefit of the others.

  Moss drove fast through the deserted flax fields towards Heraklion. Houses began to appear along the sides of the road. On their right they passed a large, lavish building which had been requisitioned as a garrison post office. A few hundred yards further on was the officers’ club; outside were chairs and tables where members sat in the warm evening air being served by white-coated mess stewards moving about taking orders and delivering trays of drinks. Military traffic into the town was building up, forcing Moss to slow down. From somewhere on the terrace outside the club a voice shouted: ‘Der Generals Wagen’; officers and men on the crowded terrace rose to attention, saluting, barging into the waiters and sending trays of drinks flying. The Opel rolled on past Heraklion cemetery along King Giorgios II Street, towards another checkpoint and the centre of the city. The pennants saw them through, the barrier swung obligingly into the air. The silence of the fields gave way to the hustle and bustle of the garrison town.

  Ahead Moss could see lights around the gardens of Liberty Square and throngs of soldiers milling in front of the huts which were the Soldatenheim, the Wehrmacht’s equivalent of the Naafi. Through the huts a swastika billowed from the pillars of the Kreiskommandantur, where Moss would have to turn right into King Giorgios I Street. This was the riskiest part of the journey: the road was very narrow and full of German vehicles and soldiers, illuminated by pools of light spilling from cafes and bars. The car slowed outside the Kommandantur and the soldiers on guard saluted. Moss swung on to the main road through the town and headed towards the crowds coming out of the civilian cinema. Soldiers poured from the building, blocking the road. More flags bearing white-circled, black swastikas flapped in the evening breeze. Drunken German soldiers sang songs and walked with their arms round each other’s shoulders, shouting greetings and elbowing aside any local unfortunate enough to get in their way. Moss blasted the horn, sending uniformed men scurrying out of the path, saluting and stumbling as they as they cleared a way for the general’s sedan. The car was waived through checkpoint after checkpoint, Leigh Fermor muttering directions from the passenger seat.

  They drove on towards Lion Square. During the day the area was usually full and bustling with people bartering whatever they could lay their hands on. The white marble bowls and lions of the fountain were permanently covered in dust; the water that fed it had been cut off soon after the invasion. Ahead the road turned slightly to the left: this was where three years earlier Colonel Tzoulakis had lost his life firing at the first paratroopers to enter the town.

  The kidnappers were on the last leg of the journey through the town. From the back of the car the general’s muffled voice burst out: ‘This is marvellous; where are you taking me?’

  ‘To Cairo,’ replied Leigh Fermor.

  ‘No. But now?’

  ‘We are in Heraklion.’

  Kreipe was flabbergasted. ‘Heraklion?’

  ‘You must understand that we want to keep you out of sight,’ said Leigh Fermor. ‘We will make you as comfortable as we can later on.’

  Leaving the centre behind they headed towards the biggest challenge of all, the heavily guarded West Gate, leading them out of the city and onto the road to Anogia. If things went wrong it was here that they planned to abandon the car and the prisoner. If forced to run they were going to blindfold Kreipe and leave him tied up in the car, using the vehicle to block the road. All around there were hundreds of narrow alleyways, flat roofs, cellars, culverts, skylights and the ruins of bombed buildings into which they could disappear. The band had hand grenades, automatic weapons, ammunition and rations enough to last until they could be smuggled out of the city. In their pockets they carried suicide pills.

  Traffic approaching the gate had to turn left and was then funnelled between large concrete blocks, painted with broad black and white stripes. The Opel joined the short queue of military vehicles and drove slowly up to the massive stone arch, weaving between the anti-tank blocks. Now it was Stratis who clamped his hand round the general’s mouth, pressing his dagger against Kreipe’s throat.

  Manolis and Giorgios slid back the bolts on their Marlin guns, holding them low and ready to fire through the thin steel of the car doors. Leigh Fermor and Moss cocked their pistols; Leigh Fermor h
eld his ready to fire; Moss’s lay on his lap.

  There were more soldiers than usual on guard at the gate, milling about on either side of the arch. A military policeman, holding a red torch, stood stock still in the middle of the road, silhouetted by bright arc lights. Leigh Fermor wound down his window and shouted out: ‘Generals Wagen,’ ordering the soldiers to kill the lights. Through the windscreen Moss could see the men passing the word back, ‘Generals Wagen’ and stiffening to attention. The military policeman hesitated, then stood aside and saluted, the barrier rose into the air, and the car swept through. Leigh Fermor shouted ‘Gute Nacht!’ and they were out of the city where there was one final checkpoint, and then they were heading west along a road that ran through moonlit fields.

  Back at the kidnap junction, Micky and Ilias finished clearing away the evidence of the kidnap and then set off on foot for Heraklion, where they were planning to start a propaganda campaign against the general.

  In the hills, Fenske the driver, had come round and was walking unsteadily under the guard of Nikos, Antonis, Chnarakis, Pavlos Zografistos and Antonios. They were making good progress and were two or three miles from the kidnap scene. Even so, Antonis decided that they could never make it: soon the Germans were going to send search parties and the driver would be a guarantee of their capture. They stopped for a rest; Antonis walked behind the German, taking out his knife and nodding to the others. He held Fenske’s hair, yanked his head back and slit his throat as if he were slaughtering a lamb. The man’s body jerked and arched in spasm, his feet drumming on the ground until after a minute they became still. Antonis ran his hands over Fenske’s tunic and removed his wallet, his paybook and his driving licence; finally he decapitated him, wiping the knife clean on the leg of his breeches. Together, the kidnappers threw the corpse into a deep hole and hid the head, leaving it to be collected later as a macabre souvenir. The abduction had claimed its first victim.