– –

4
Crete: From Frying Pan to Fire

Where to next? Shipboard conversations revealed we were heading for Crete, 100 miles south east of Greece, to bolster the garrison there and defend the island against attack.

The idea had little appeal. Our morale was low and we envied the 6th Brigade which was on its way to Alexandria. It had been decided, it seemed, that if the rest of the division was wiped out, there would be a nucleus left from which its strength could be built up again. Subconsciously, we questioned the wisdom of the decision to defend Crete, but who were we to wonder why?

We stepped ashore at Suda Bay lucky to be alive and determined to do our share come what may. The sun was shining, the surroundings looked interesting, the locals were friendly, the olive trees provided welcome shade, the oranges were ripe and juicy and the wine was good — perhaps we should count our blessings.

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After some delay, while a battle plan was being decided, we marched with the 5th Brigade west along the northern coastline to prepare defensive positions around the Maleme aerodrome against both airborne and sea attack. The 22nd Battalion was given the prestigious task of defending the aerodrome itself. C Company was chosen to guard the perimeter of the aerodrome with our three platoons thinly spread around it. Our company was quite seriously under strength with three instead of five officers and each section depleted by about a third. Besides looking after 14 Platoon, I had to act as second in command of the company, ready to take over if Captain Stan Johnson was a casualty.

Company headquarters was sited with 14 Platoon on the south side of the road alongside the aerodrome. To the west of us was a tented camp with a large number of Royal Air Force and supporting personnel who retained control of the aerodrome but were not under our command, which was a serious weakness as they were within our defensive area. The rest of the battalion, with all companies well under strength, was deployed round Point 107 which overlooked the aerodrome from the south. Colonel Andrew had to locate his companies to defend a perimeter of over four miles — an impossible task. No troops were available to defend the wide expanse of the Tavronitis River bed to the west of the aerodrome and the only troops west of that were a weak Greek regiment guarding a beach 10 miles away.

General Freyberg had been put in command of the island's defences and the extent of the German casualties later inflicted by the defenders showed his judgment was correct on almost every count. It was a large island to defend both from the air and the sea and a shortage of troops and equipment dictated that, although the problem was recognised, the area west of Maleme aerodrome was left undefended. The 22nd Battalion had 600 men which was

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about one third under full strength. We all had personal weapons of some sort but were short of Tommy guns, Brens, mortars, machine guns and grenades. To dig our slit trenches in the rocky ground we had to use our bayonets as picks and our tin helmets as shovels. A shovel borrowed from a local was a treasure indeed.

The time taken by the enemy to get ready for the assault on Crete allowed us to prepare reasonable defences. We were kept well informed about what to expect and when to expect it as, unknown to the front line troops, the Allies had broken the German code. We were greatly relieved when the main attack was delayed for several days. However, the frequency of air attacks increased and it was with a mixture of pride and despair that we watched the few Hurricanes based at Maleme gradually being shot out of the air. Those pilots were gallant beyond description. In spite of being outnumbered 50 to one, they still answered the call. I think there were originally six planes and they were whittled down to two. I was watching when the second to last one, coming in to land, on fire and with a Messerschmitt 110 on his tail, was inadvertently blown out of the sky by Australian ack-ack gunners trying to hit the German plane. The sole remaining plane was sent back to Egypt that evening and the pilot left with our blessing. They had accounted for many times their own number of planes against overwhelming odds.

There was no air cover from then on but we hoped the ever reliable navy would help to repel a seaborne invasion and leave us to cope with the gliders and paratroops. We were lying in wait, well camouflaged and reasonably well dug in.

We had been warned the assault might start on May 17, but the morning came and went with only the usual dive bombing and strafing which started soon after daylight and continued during the day until dusk. Every man stood to his post from 5.30 am to 7.00 am and from 8.15pm to 9.00 pm while dive-

– 29 –

bombing Stukas screamed down from the sky, with sirens blaring, hurling their bombs and bullets at us with ever increasing intensity. Throughout the day there were enemy aircraft overhead on reconnaissance or trying to pick out targets. As C Company was deployed round the perimeter of the aerodrome we seemed to be getting most of the attention and I got the feeling that every Stuka was diving at me personally. The ‘wham, wham’ of the bombs as they exploded close by, and the ‘zip, zip, zip’ of the bullets whistling through the olive trees had us cowering in our slit trenches.

One of my section leaders came to me on May 18 to tell me one of his men could stand no more, so I went to have a chat with him. His nerves were obviously gone so his section commander and I took him some distance up a creek bed where I had previously discovered a cave. We gave him some rations, water and bedding and said we would visit him daily to see how he was getting on. Next morning, after the blitz had abated, I went to see him. He was dead without a mark on him. He had died of fright or despair, which was a sad ending for a brave man. He had volunteered to do his bit for his country and he had done it to the best of his ability.

Our slit trenches were dug in the form of a V about five feet deep and with just two men in each, a direct hit was needed before serious damage was done. Dawn broke on May 20 and over came the expected Stukas. We curled up in the bottom of our slit trenches and braced ourselves for the ordeal. After about an hour the onslaught eased off and my runner, Jimmy Christian, who occupied one side of our two man slit trench, went off to collect our breakfast. While he was away I heard a dull roar and looked out to sea to see an armada of heavy bombers coming straight at us, wave after wave of menacing monsters all heading for our position. Now we are for it, I thought; this is where it all begins and, perhaps, ends.

– 30 –

These were big bombers and as each bomb screeched down, I curled up into the smallest possible space, knees under chin, tin hat protecting my head and body. As each bomb zoomed in, tension built up to a crescendo of sheer terror and uncontrollable trembling for the few seconds before impact. There was no time for relief before the next bomb with my name apparently on it followed closely behind. The same process over and over again — would it never stop? Finally, my personal bomb landed five feet away on my runner's side of our slit trench and I passed out with concussion.

I came round to find Jimmy Christian shaking my shoulder. “Wake up, boss, there are paratroopers and gliders all around us”. I stood up groggily and, looked out but could not see a thing. A heavy pall of dust and smoke obliterated everything. As it slowly dispersed during the next quarter of an hour two smashed gliders and a few abandoned parachutes were revealed. My platoon position and company headquarters were carpeted with bomb craters practically touching one another. Five of my platoon had been killed and several wounded in this attack.

Suddenly, a German Spandau machine gun opened up in 13 Platoon's area on the other side of the aerodrome near the beach, followed by a burst from a Bren — one of ours. Rifle shots followed; 15 Platoon at the western end of the aerodrome seemed to be heavily engaged, as indeed they were. Their platoon commander — Lieutenant Robin Sinclair — was shot thorough the throat. Later taken prisoner, he recovered sufficiently in prison camp in Athens to escape by caique to Alexandria and, after a spell at home in New Zealand, rejoined the 22nd Battalion in Italy in 1944.

A singular act of heroism occurred in 15 Platoon at this time (May 20) when a German hand grenade was thrown into Lance-Corporal J T Mehaffy's slit trench where several of his section were sheltering. He whipped off his helmet,

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placed it over the grenade and stood on it to protect his men. Both his feet were blown off and he died soon after. He was recommended for the Victoria Cross, the only decoration which could be awarded posthumously, but our Military Secretary, sitting comfortably back in Maadi Camp in Egypt turned it down.

When most of 15 Platoon were killed or wounded and taken prisoner, the fighting at the western end of the aerodrome ceased. We could count at least 200 Germans milling around in the area and hundreds more had landed safely by parachute in the undefended ground further west. By about midday on May 20 the Germans had captured the RAF tented camp and had taken many prisoners. A good deal of small arms fire was whistling round and it became evident the Germans were mounting an attack on our position from the west. We could hear them talking and giving orders. Suddenly we saw some of them about 100 yards away driving a screen of unarmed RAF personnel in front of them through the olive trees. I quickly summed up the situation and, deciding we would have to let them come in really close if we were going to be able to save the Brits, I gave instructions that the men were not to fire until I opened up. The tension mounted as they got closer and when the Brits were about 30 yards away, I shouted to them, “Drop! We're going to fire”. They dropped with alacrity and we opened up a withering fire on the Germans who were quite exposed close behind them. We shot all we could see and the rest pulled back, giving us no more trouble that afternoon.

Our depleted ranks were now reinforced with about eight new British recruits, including one officer. They were keen to join us so we gave them rifles and ammunition collected from our previous casualties and they joined us in our slit trenches. It was quiet in our immediate area for a while as, although German aircraft were circling round overhead most

– 32 –

of the time looking for targets, we were well camouflaged and they could not spot us. At about five o'clock in the afternoon, I received a message to report to Company headquarters. Captain Stan Johnson looked at me rather strangely I thought. “I've just had orders from the Colonel,” he said. “We have to mount a counter attack with the ‘I’ tanks and your platoon is to go with them and supply covering fire”.

I had heard about the two ‘I’ tanks the colonel had under his command but had not seen them as they had been hidden away as a trump card. They were big and slow, heavily armoured with only a fiddling two pounder gun in the turret but with quite an effective machine gun, and were manned by British crews. “There are a hell of a lot of Germans down there,” I said, not relishing the idea at all.

“Yes, but they are not expecting the tanks,” said Johnny, “and will probably surrender.” What a pipe dream I thought. “There the tanks are,” said Johnny, “off you go and, if you want to communicate with them, there is a bell at the back of the turret”. Hell, I thought — broad daylight too!

I quickly called my section commanders together and gave

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them instructions on the move, as we were supposed to give the tanks close support and they were away ahead of us trundling up the road westward toward the Tavronitis River bridge. “Spread out with your section on the left of the road and yours on the right and I'll stick close to the left of the road with the other section.” The English officer had insisted on coming with us, so I put him with the reserve section. By this time the front tank was half way to the bridge at the western end of the aerodrome where we had seen so many Germans milling around earlier in the day. The second tank was about 100 yards ahead of us and twice that distance behind the first tank.

We were being shot at from all directions and a light anti-tank gun was firing at the tanks.

We could see the shells ricocheting off. We had gone about 200 yards using whatever cover we could find when my right hand section commander crossed the road to me, followed by a hail of bullets. “It's no good,” he said, “we're too exposed. I've had two men killed and two wounded”.

“OK, I'll come across and see,” I said. “Lead on”. Over we went and were met by another hail of bullets, one of which went through my thigh and on its way out should have collected my particulars but, by some miracle, did not. “Pity,” remarked my brother when told of this incident later. “Stay where you are under cover,” I told my corporal. “Give us covering fire if you can, and we'll try to press on up the left side of the road”.

There was a little more cover on that side but, when I contacted my left section, I found they were down to half strength. The English officer lay dead in the watercourse alongside the road and my reserve section had had several casualties. The frustrating thing was that we could not see any Germans to shoot at but they could see every movement we made. The second tank had stopped on the road about 75

– 34 –

yards ahead of us and the first had reached the river bed close to the bridge. I tried to get forward to make contact with the nearest tank but was very quickly pinned to the ground in the shallow watercourse alongside the road. They must have been able to see the pack on my back because several bullets went through it.

Just ahead of me in the watercourse lay a dead Cretan alongside an equally dead donkey which had a pigskin full of wine slung on either side of it. While contemplating my predicament with bullets spitting over my back, I suddenly saw a jet of red wine spout out from one of the pigskins. A bullet had gone through it and this lovely red wine started trickling down the watercourse towards me. It gradually collected in pools which were overflowing and trickling on in my direction. A pool formed about a yard ahead of me but didn't overflow, and I was thirsty. Dare I move forward on my belly? Could I resist it? They had stopped shooting at me so I wriggled forward. Nectar of the Gods! It was the sweetest drink I've had to this day, and it was taken from a roadside puddle.

By this time, the first tank had shed a track and we saw the crew surrendering to the Germans. The second tank turned on the road and started lumbering back towards us, fortuitously stopping right beside me. I climbed up on the sheltered side of the tank and pressed the bell — no response; again, no response so I waved my hand across the small glass porthole which the driver looks through and the turret top was raised a few inches very warily. I spoke to the commander. He reported the other tank's surrender and that he was pulling out. He was no longer effective because he could not rotate his turret. I could see that an anti-tank shell had hit the steel cowling at the base of the turret, causing it to jam. “OK,” I said, “let me load some of my wounded men onto the lee side of the tank and the rest of us will shelter alongside as you go out.” This we did under a hail of bullets and mortar

– 35 –

bombs and eight of the 28 who had started got back unscathed along with five wounded. It had not been the way to fight a war in my view, but sometimes desperate situations require desperate measures, and perhaps it was not fair to blame the colonel.

We licked our wounds for a while but there was more excitement before long. We had taken a Browning machine gun from one of the wrecked Hurricanes, and rigged it up onto a rather rickety tripod to use against low flying aircraft. It was my turn to man this gun when a determined looking flight of transporters circled the aerodrome like a mob of ducks about to come in to the decoys. It was getting near dusk and obviously they wanted to know if it was safe to land. The leader peeled off and began to approach the runway so I waited until he had almost touched down and then let him have it up the rear. The plane wavered from side to side and cartwheeled into a pile of wrecked planes at the far end of the runway. The remainder of the flight took warning and headed back to Greece, and I felt somewhat better.

As dusk approached, Stan Johnson and I tried to assess our position. We knew that 15 Platoon had been wiped out and suspected that the western section of 13 Platoon, on the beach near 15 Platoon, had also been overrun. We hoped that some of 13 Platoon, under Sergeant Crawford, were still holding out as sporadic shooting was going on in the area, but all telephone lines were cut by the bombing and attempts to contact 13 Platoon by runner had failed. My platoon had been reduced effectively to one section of about eight men and company headquarters only had five or six orderlies, runners, cooks, stretcher bearers and so on who were capable of fighting. There were also a few Brits, but we were not very strong and some of us were wounded. As darkness closed in, we had heard the Germans advancing from three directions to within about 50 yards of us. The last orders we had received

– 36 –

from battalion headquarters were to “Hold on at all costs”. Stan Johnson asked if he could use my runner — Jimmy Christian and the most qualified person available — to try to get through the encircling Germans and up to battalion headquarters to report on our situation and to get new orders.

Jimmy knew the way in the dark so he removed his boots to reduce noise, slung them round his neck, and crept between German section posts, hearing loud snoring from some. He reached battalion headquarters about 500 yards away and, finding it abandoned, reported back promptly with the news. This was very disturbing — had they been captured or had they pulled out? Unwilling to accept this evidence, Stan asked Jimmy if he was prepared to have another look to make certain he had gone to the correct location. A further search might disclose something. Back Jimmy went, very courageously, and he soon returned after checking there was no one there and no sign of any skirmish, no wounded men or dead bodies. He heard Germans close by, however, and assumed the position had been overrun.

A last attempt to contact 13 Platoon failed to penetrate the German positions and, this time, well after midnight, Stan Johnson asked me what I thought we should do. “Well,” I said, “our last orders were to hold on at all costs, but it seems pretty dicey”. Thank goodness, Stan then made the right decision to pull out as we were certainly not capable of withstanding the inevitable dawn attack on our isolated position. The full weight of the air and ground forces, Stukas, mortars and machine guns would have centred on our weak position which was overlooked by Point 107, now in German hands.

By the time we were ready to withdraw, it was about 4.30 am and we were concerned about the approaching daylight. With Jimmy Christian leading again, and our boots removed and slung around necks to prevent the noise they made in

– 37 –

the loose rocks, we set off up the hill to head for the 21st Battalion lines which were adjacent to the 22nd Battalion. We were in single file, between 25 and 30 of us, with Stan Johnson at the head and me at the rear following behind the few wounded men who could make it with the help of our two stretcher bearers.

The boots went on again when we were through the encircling German lines. Inevitably our group had strung out — the wounded were slow and the leaders had moved at a fair clip and somehow, three members of 14 platoon were caught by the Germans. (However, Lance-corporal Len Earnshaw, Ian Penhall and A G Smith later escaped and spent six weeks in hiding before being taken off on H M S Torbay and returned safely to Alexandria.) As for the rest of us, dawn found the last of us just emerging from the German lines. Suddenly I heard a noise on the terrace just above me about 10 yards away. Then I saw a German helmet emerge above the long grass on the edge of the terrace. I raised my Tommy gun to my shoulder and, as I took aim, the helmet wobbled unnaturally but I could not stop myself from firing even though I now realised this was a German ruse to try to draw fire from any enemy.

As I heard the metallic twang of the bullets hitting the helmet and the bayonet propping it up, I whipped out a hand grenade, pulled the pin, waited two seconds and lobbed it onto the terrace above. The loud explosion followed by squeals and raucous orders indicated that the grenade had done its job. However, instead of throwing another one, I got the hell out of it, showing I had a strong instinct for survival, or was it fright?

By this time I was well behind the others and it was fast becoming daylight. The ground was broken and fairly open with olive trees dotted about and grape vines growing on the few flat terraces. A series of ridges led up to Point 107 where

– 38 –

battalion headquarters had been overrun. Although only 100 yards high, Point 107 dominated the surrounding country, with a good view over the aerodrome to the sea coast, about a mile away, and of the whole area. By now the Germans were well established there and we were becoming increasingly exposed.

Suddenly, a loud roar came from behind me and, looking over my shoulder I saw, to my consternation, a huge German plane skimming the top of the ridge I was crossing. I had just replaced my Tommy gun magazine with a full 50 round drum and had time, as this Junkers 52 troop carrier lumbered towards me about 30 yards away, to aim first at one of the motors, then at the cockpit with a burst into each. I then kept my finger on the trigger and watched the bullet holes appear evenly spaced along the fuselage at about the chest height of the helmeted troops whose heads I could see peering anxiously out of each porthole. The last bullet landed on the tail and the plane flew on and disappeared over the next ridge.

It was months before I heard this episode had been witnessed by a number of our troops who had watched the plane crash on the other side of the ridge and had covered it with a Bren gun. No Germans emerged so, presumably, they were all killed — about 20 soldiers and crew. This was the second aircraft I had shot down from the ground within 12 hours and the first time I had heard of a plane being shot down with a short range Tommy gun.

Moving on towards the 21st Battalion lines, I had to cross another ridge and, approaching the top, I surprised a party of six Jerries laying out a red swastika flag to show their planes where to drop supplies. At 25 yards I shot their leader with a burst from the Tommy gun and got two more before they disappeared. I picked up the flag and started jogging towards the 21st Battalion lines. I must have looked like a German because the 21st and some 23rd boys opened fire on me. I

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quickly threw the flag away and stood in full view waving my arms up in the air. They realised no German would be stupid enough to do that so they stopped firing, thank goodness, and let me enter into their sanctuary. One 22nd soldier later skited he had fired at me and I'd told him off for being such a poor shot!

After a meal and an exchange of information, Stan Johnson sent me off to the 21st regimental aid post (RAP) in a nearby village, to have my wound dressed. The field dressing previously applied had slipped and the wound looked a bit angry, so off I went and found an old mate — Lieutenant Barney Clapham — getting running repairs for a similar wound.

As there were a lot of casualties to be attended to, we sat around waiting and compared notes. Barney was our battalion transport officer and had been heavily engaged in Pigros village east of the aerodrome, where our headquarters company had been acting as infantry. They had given a good account of themselves but had pulled out, as we had, in the early hours of the morning. By late afternoon, our wounds had been dressed and we were told by the doctor that he wanted to renew the dressings in the morning but we would have to fend for ourselves that night as he had no spare beds.

To ensure we had a good night's sleep, we found a likely looking house in the village with a couple of beds in it As usual we woke early and, being inquisitive, I looked around the house and eventually emerged on to the flat roof of this two-storeyed building. To my surprise, I saw a line of about 30 Germans spread out across the hillside above us about 500 yards away and coming in our direction. My Tommy gun was no good at that distance but Barney had a German Mauser rifle and some ammunition. German ammunition was more plentiful than our own so it was commonplace to use their weapons.

– 40 –

It was time to see whether the sniper's course at Bisley six months before had sharpened my eye. Another New Zealander — Sergeant Boag of Invercargill — and I had passed out first and second in the shooting events at that course, so now I borrowed Barney's rifle and he acted as spotter with his field glasses. I was used to shooting bullseyes at 900 and 1,000 yards so this distance was quite good.

“Got that one!” cried Barney excitedly. “There's another one five yards to the left — got him! They've gone to ground.” He located a few more for me over the next 10 minutes or so and I had more success. It was quite exhilarating and I found myself enjoying it with no thought whatsoever about the lives I was taking. I do not think I am normally callous but am sure my war experience reduced my regard for human life very considerably. Today nothing would make me press that trigger.

When things quietened down Barney saw a medical orderly walking up the middle of the road with half a white sheet hoisted on the end of a pole. “What's the score?” called out Barney. Apparently, the village was surrounded, the regimental aid post had surrendered and we were to stop firing. We had a quick conference. Were we to be taken prisoner with the others or should we try to break out?

Previously I had noticed a sunken cart track leading off the road heading towards the hills to the south. Barney and I hurried downstairs and made for the track without being spotted. Then we doubled along it for about half a mile until it emerged into the open. From some low cover we looked around and to the west could see about 30 Germans in extended order some 300 yards away coming directly towards us. To the north and the south we could see similar formations slowly probing down the ridges. We were in a three sided box with no chance of moving without being spotted. The area where we were was made up of rock terraces covered in unruly clumps of vines and small shrubs about five feet high and

– 41 –

thick enough to hide in. “You take that one and I'll squeeze in here,” I said to Barney thinking that, if one was caught, the other might not be noticed. We waited with bated breath as the Jerries approached and were anxious when we heard odd bursts of fire.

A German slid down over my head from the terrace above followed by another and another. The whole platoon must have slid over me about two feet away — I could have touched each one. We watched with apprehension as they fired bursts into thickets like ours but they passed on without discovering us. Phew! That was close! We waited without moving for about half an hour until we gradually plucked up enough courage to call quietly to one another. “Are you all right, Haddon?” asked Barney. “Yes, how about you?” I replied quietly.

We decided to stay put and move during the night because, although we were behind the German lines, it appeared we were safe enough. We spent several hours in that confined space waiting for darkness before heading south and then east to rejoin the battalion after outflanking the Jerries. We could hear shooting through the day to the east and the German aircraft movements gave us a fair indication of where the front line was. The going was so rough that our progress was slow in the dark and, after tumbling 30 feet down a rock face almost into a turbulent stream, I decided enough was enough so we tried to sleep on a rocky outcrop without much success. Our wounds were giving both of us trouble. While not being dangerous, my wound would ache and throb for the first quarter of an hour after a rest period but, once we were warmed up, both of us could walk fairly normally.

Shortly after daybreak, to our great surprise, we ran into two Maori lads from the 28th Battalion who were lost. We told them our plans so they decided to join us and they roped in three more who were hiding nearby. I had a Tommy gun and some grenades, Barney had the German Mauser and

– 42 –

some of the Maori had their rifles so we had almost become a fighting patrol. Soon another party of 10 appeared, making us stronger if rather conspicuous.

As I had the only Tommy gun, I took the lead when we set off at daybreak, keeping to the trees and watercourses for cover. As we approached a Cretan village, I went forward on my own to see if the coast was clear. A Cretan woman appeared and ran up the track towards me waving her arms about, so I took cover. She joined me 10 minutes later, coming through the olive trees, and explained, with broken English and sign language, that there were 150 Germans in the village. They had slept there the night, eaten all her eggs and bread and spilt all her wine — and she with four children to keep. She told us to wait and returned to the village. We watched as the Germans moved out onto the plains below, moving eastward, and soon our Cretan friend returned to tell us they had left two men behind to police the village which we would now have to bypass.

Our party had become too large for the rather open country we had to cross, so we decided to split into two and rendezvous at a church we could see about five miles away. This manoeuvre was completed successfully and we were pushing on towards the next valley when we were met by 20 or 30 Cretan villagers laden with eggs, milk, cheese, cooked beans, bread and wine. Word had been passed on that we were coming and they had laid on a wonderful reception for us.

Several Cretan lads were posted as lookouts as we set to, enjoying a very satisfying meal. Then our haversacks were filled with bread, eggs and cheese and we were provided with a guide for the next part of our journey. They could not understand why I would not drink their wine and were so persistent that I put my Tommy gun to my shoulder and rocked around as if I was drunk and then violently shook my head. They burst into peels of laughter and patted me on the

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shoulder, understanding at last. Then they decided they wanted to kiss us, bearded old men, wrinkled old women, lads and lasses and all with hearts of gold.

In a letter to my family written two weeks later in our No 2 Hospital in Helwan, Egypt I described these Cretans as “the kindest people I have ever struck or am likely to strike and we went away with their blessing and a guide to show us the way”. Is it any wonder that the strong feeling of kinship built up between the Cretans and New Zealand soldiers has lasted to this day.

Our guide took us on to the next village in the foothills of the White Mountains where we rested up for a couple of hours and Barney had his wound attended to by a local doctor. The Cretans were kept well informed about enemy movements and seemed to know when it was safe to move and which areas were free of Germans. There was a network of runners — superbly fit young men — who carried messages throughout the mountains in spite of the constant threat of capture and torture. When my wife Ana and I visited Crete some 40 years later, we met up with one of them — George Psychoundakis — who had written an excellent account of his wartime activities entitled The Cretan Runner.

Our guide stayed with us until we reached the next village and I will never forget the grove full of ripe juicy oranges he led us through as we approached the houses. He waited until we had eaten our fill and replenished our supplies of that most delicious fruit. By now we were due south of Canea where our troops were making a stand at 42nd Street, a mile west of Suda village. It was time to head north to rejoin our units.

We were about eight miles from the coast and uncertain who we would meet up with next when we discovered a Cretan soldier in what appeared to be a deserted village. He spoke English and took me to his commanding officer who said they were expecting a German attack in the morning. We

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were dog tired, and many of us were wounded, so we made arrangements to sleep that night in the local school and to help out if there was an attack. When, in the morning, there was no attack we set off with a guide to direct us for the first two or three miles. We were uncertain where we were, let alone the location of the enemy or our own troops, and after our guide left us we had an eerie feeling of being terribly exposed. We must have arrived at 42nd Street just after our troops had pulled out and before the Germans started their advance. There were signs of battle with bodies of dead Germans and New Zealanders lying about, but it was very quiet except for patrolling enemy aircraft.

A naval hospital was still operating with a skeleton staff so Barney and I had our now infected wounds dressed. We said goodbye to our intrepid band of fellow wanderers who went off to locate their respective units and headed east along the road until darkness and tiredness overtook us once again. When we found an empty house with two made up beds we dossed down, but after only an hour's sleep the owner turned up. He was very affable, however, and gave us four eggs and a bottle of wine but said he had to lock up the place as he was leaving before the Germans arrived next morning. We packed up and moved on to a hay barn further down the road where we slept soundly in the hay.

Before dawn we were off again trudging eastward. By now we had learned we were to evacuate Crete from the small fishing village of Sfakia on the south coast. We met up with two 22nd Battalion lads left behind the night before and trying to catch up again. With our wounds, Barney and I were slow and those White Mountains to the south, over which we had to climb, looked dauntingly high. When we came across an abandoned ordinance depot, which was very much in Barney's line, he suggested we have a look around. A lot of wrecked vehicles and some supplies did not look very encouraging,

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but in a workshop he spotted a brand new, partly assembled BSA motor cycle. Most of the nuts were still loose and the tyres were flat, but it was half full of petrol, so Barney got to work and soon had it operational. There was an anxious moment when he tried the kick starter, but with a little coaxing it roared into life. Big smiles creased both our faces — and I thought Barney a genius. He grabbed his gear and his rifle, climbed aboard and motioned to me to sit on the carrier. It wasn't padded like his seat, but I didn't complain — far from it, he was a life saver.

We sailed along the road passing a few troops but, with very few army vehicles on Crete, the road itself was fairly clear, as most surviving units had taken up defensive positions off the main road. Eventually we stopped and I re-mounted facing backwards so that I could spot enemy aircraft approaching from the rear. Several times we had to hide under olive trees but we escaped detection and were not shot at. There was no sign of the 22nd and no one seemed to know where they were. In fact, they had occupied a defensive position some distance off the left of the road and, unknowingly, we passed them by.

After what seemed like ages, we finally reached the top of the pass leading over the White Mountains down to Sfakia where the motor faltered, sputtered and conked out — we had used all our petrol. Reluctantly Barney removed some parts and pushed the motorcycle over a cliff where it lay in a mangled heap. The parts he threw away. We were now on our feet again but, luckily, it was all downhill. It was a long way down, but eventually we arrived at the approaches to the beach just on dusk.

A beach marshal, who was checking everyone, took our credentials and put us with quite a large group of walking wounded with whom we stayed that night and the following day. The next night we were directed down to the beach and

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out into the water to be picked up by a lighter and ferried out on to HMS Napier, a fairly new destroyer. It was all very orderly and there were no mishaps. We had done the same thing a month before so we were used to the drill. Once again mugs of hot cocoa and slices of bread and jam were served to the grateful troops and once again we felt safe in the hands of the navy.

The ships wanted to be underway before sunrise to be well clear of the island and hopefully out of range of marauding aircraft. But the desire to take off as many troops as possible delayed our departure so that, soon after daybreak, we were attacked from the air. Fortunately, the planes were at extreme range and their bombing erratic. The threat of submarines aside, we were heading for Egypt and safety. The day was beautiful, the sea was calm and once again the convoy presented a magnificent sight as we zigzagged through the waters of the blue Mediterranean.

When we sailed into Alexandria that evening, bloodied but unbowed, there on the wharf to greet us was Beet Chapman with her traveling canteen. She immediately arranged for a cable to be sent to my parents and organised with the chief postmaster to have all my mail sorted and delivered to the hospital at Helwan where it arrived soon after I did. And there in the bed next to me was my old sergeant, now second lieutenant, John Ormond. He had been commissioned at Sandhurst in England and subsequently shipped back from Greece with a shrapnel wound in his shoulder. We had a great reunion but shortly afterwards he was sent back to New Zealand in a hospital ship and we did not meet up again until after the war. After about three weeks of rest and recuperation, I was fit enough to be posted back to the 22nd where we prepared for our next operation. By now I felt I had served my apprenticeship.

While I had no doubt we should never have been sent to

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Greece, Crete was a different matter. The Allies had been invited to strengthen the defences there before the decision was taken to support the Greek mainland and a half-hearted attempt had been made to do this. Had Crete been turned into a fortress, the Germans, preoccupied with their Russian campaign, would never have attacked it and thousands of lives and many naval vessels would have been saved.

The Battle of Crete was an epic encounter, unique as an airborne invasion, and never to be repeated by the Germans because of their horrendous loss of elite troops. It became controversial in later years as our armchair historians tried to lay the blame for its loss on individuals. These included General Freyberg and our 22nd Battalion commanding officer Lt Colonel L W Andrew VC who was responsible for the defence of the vital Maleme aerodrome. Published records indicate a considerably greater number of Allied than German forces but with no recognition that the invading troops were almost all front line fighting men while the majority of ours were support personnel in charge of supply, aerodromes, parts, etc. The crucial matter, to my mind, was the complete domination of the air by the Germans and the fact that, until that time, Hitler had won every battle and was unlikely to accept a defeat.

On April 11 2001 I wrote to The Dominion newspaper in Wellington in defence of Lt Colonel Andrew's actions on Crete. The man was a hero, had won a VC in the First World War, and chose to face it all again in the Second World War. His personal courage was without question and his judgment was sound in the face of tremendous pressure and a realisation of the inevitable result of this unequal battle.

Why were we so tragically ill-equipped? Churchill had for years tried to persuade the British parliament of the danger Hitler posed, but his fellow politicians took scant notice of his warnings. There were even those amongst them who

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applauded Hitler. In 1932 a review of British defences was proposed and in 1938 it was still being discussed and practically nothing had been done. As a result, a paltry British Expeditionary Force, completely unfit for modern warfare, was sent to the Continent to fight under French command. It was a minor component of a much larger, slightly better equipped but morally insecure French Army.

At the end of the First World War, radio was being used at battalion headquarters level and this vital communications device had been finally accepted. However, 20 years later, the British Expeditionary Force still relied on field telephones and runners. A brigade of tanks was sent over to the Continent but General Montgomery, who commanded the 3rd British Division, said he never saw one. And Britain had invented the tank! Our anti-tank gunners were equipped with insignificant 2 pounder guns while the Germans had the magnificent 88 millimetre anti-tank and anti-aircraft gun which had been offered to Britain by the inventors before the war and turned down by the War Office. The infantry was equipped with a very few ‘Boyes’ anti-tank rifles — and that really says it all. Rifles against tanks!

I fail to understand why, after the war, those guilty politicians were not tried for criminal neglect. They were responsible for sending troops equipped with ‘Boyes’ rifles against tanks. They were not tried in the courts of law, but they should have died of shame. Had they experienced the dread of being crushed beneath the tracks of a tank, they might have done something. Our New Zealand politicians during that period were equally to blame, but England should have given a lead to the Commonwealth.