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Latimer blew up his lifebelt with a great show as they left for sea. ‘I expect it’s all the air support we’ll get,’ he observed.

With Intelligence reporting that the attack could be expected any day, Kelly took Impi and Indian, followed by Verschoyle’s three Hunt-Class ships, to Suda Bay before leaving on a sweep to the north. It was a messy arrangement mixing the classes of ships, but it was typical of war when tidiness was often sacrificed to ensure that it went on without interruption.

‘It’s a bit like Boy’s Own Paper,’ was Verschoyle’s comment. ‘Soldiers of the King facing fearful odds.’

Crete was a harsh island, but dawn there always seemed to be extraordinarily beautiful, rising on decks wet with dew or powdered with sand blown from Africa, and it required little imagination to understand why it had been so beloved of Byron and Rupert Brooke.

To the men struggling to build defences, however, and to the nervous sailors with their eyes on the sky on the lookout for aircraft, there was little poetry in a place that was only a temporary refuge from German ferocity. Whitehall was urging that it should be made a fortress, but no arms had arrived and, despite the numbers of soldiers, it remained a base of gunners without guns, drivers without vehicles, and signallers without radios, all mixed indiscriminately together and left to man the defences because there had been no ships after Greece to transport them to Egypt.

On the evening of May 19th, north of the island, Kelly’s four ships were found by dive-bombers but, thanks to the anti-aircraft guns on the Hunt-Class ships, they were all driven off. Because of their smallness, however, the Hunts were unable to carry a great deal of ammunition or fuel and, as they returned to Suda Bay to re-ammunition, they ran into a fresh series of air attacks which appeared to be directed chiefly at the beached York. They were due to head north again the following day but, as they prepared for sea, they could see heavy German bombing south of Canea and towards Maleme.

‘Break out the Flit guns,’ Kelly suggested to Latimer. ‘I’m going to my cabin. Call me if it comes on to bomb.’

He had hardly spoken when aircraft appeared over the mountains and swept over the harbour. Immediately, every gun on every ship burst into flame. The din was terrific and a Junkers 88 hurtled over the bay at masthead height, trailing smoke, to disappear beyond the hills in a great flower of flame.

‘That’s got one of the buggers,’ Siggis yelled with satisfaction.

As they turned from watching the disappearing aircraft, they saw more appearing to the south and west of Canea.

‘Junkers 52s,’ Latimer said. ‘Transports.’

Almost immediately, they saw objects falling from the aeroplanes and the blossoming of parachutes, then more concentrations of troop carriers and gliders making for Maleme.

‘The invasion appears to have arrived!’

Almost immediately, the signal arrived to send them off to the north.

‘SWEEPS CANCELLED. GERMAN SEABORNE FORCE NORTH OF CRETE. COURSE 180. PATROL NORTH OF HERAKLION EAST OF LONGITUDE 25 DEGREES GUARDING GENERAL AREA SUDA BAY/KISSAMO BAY/MALEME.’

As they slipped to sea, it was obvious that the military situation ashore was already confused and uncertain, and more aircraft were already swinging in to attack Suda Bay. As they turned north they could smell the land – the dry breath of rock, dust and rotting driftwood – and in the distance the sky seemed to be full of aircraft and the black pockmarks of shell bursts.

‘Aircraft green one-oh!’ Rumbelo’s voice swung their heads round. ‘About twenty of them!’

‘They’re Junkers!’ Latimer yelled. ‘Twenty-one, to be exact. And they don’t have escorts!’

‘Make to all ships,’ Kelly said. ‘Point blank range.’

As the flags fluttered up the guns remained quiet, and they watched in silence as the aircraft approached. Since the ships made no attempt to fire, the pilots of the Junkers seemed to feel they were out of ammunition, and made only a slight swing away from them. But then every gun in the flotilla, the 4.7 all-purpose weapons on the I-class ships, the point-fives and Verschoyle’s four-inch-high-angle guns, burst into flame. The first of the transports was surrounded by puffballs of smoke and almost immediately its starboard engine began to trail smoke. A door opened and men began to jump, their parachutes opening as they fell. A second machine just behind exploded and fell in pieces, a wing sidling sideways and downwards in long slicing curves through a sky that was dotted with the falling bodies of men.

Latimer was shouting with excitement as another aircraft caught fire. The transports had run straight into the barrage and within seconds seven of them were falling towards the sea and several more were trailing smoke. The rest swung away to the north, followed by the pockmarks of shell bursts.

‘That’s stopped the bastards laughing in church,’ Siggis yelled jubilantly.

They continued to head north, fighting off a half-hearted attack by Italian bombers and later a force of high-speed Italian torpedo boats which hurtled round St Nikolo Point at the eastern end of Los and let go their torpedoes before retiring in the face of overwhelming fire. Throughout the night they sped eastwards, dreading the following morning and the possibility of being discovered by dive-bombers.

Latimer appeared at Kelly’s side.

‘Forces C and D have been attacked,’ he announced. ‘Ajax damaged. Juno sunk.’ He frowned. ‘My brother-in-law’s in Juno.’

‘I’m sorry, William. I hope he’s safe.’

Latimer shrugged. Tragedies of this sort were common coinage these days and people had grown so inured to them, they no longer had much impact.

Shortly afterwards another signal arrived.

‘NUMBER OF SMALL CRAFT HEADING SOUTHWARDS TOWARDS CRETE. BELIEVED TO BE PART OF INVASION FLOTILLA. CLOSE IN THROUGH KASO STRAIT AND KITHERA CHANNEL TO PREVENT SEABORNE LANDING.’

‘Give me a course, Pilot,’ Kelly said. ‘Revolutions for 28 knots.’

Just after eleven o’clock, the masthead look-out called out.

‘Masthead to bridge. Unlighted ship red two-oh.’ There was a pause. ‘Correction. Several ships. Small ships. They look like Greek caïques.’

‘Port two-oh!’ Kelly said. ‘Full ahead both. Stand by the searchlight. How far north of Crete are we, Pilot?’

‘Eighteen miles, sir.’

‘I bet they were hoping to make the place in darkness. Searchlight!’

Impi’s light blazed out; Indian’s followed, with the lights of Verschoyle’s ships. Just ahead were about twenty-five caïques, the small wooden cargo boats that operated among the islands. They seemed to be crammed with men among guns and boxes of what appeared to be ammunition. Officers in the bows appeared to be yelling instructions to each other with megaphones.

‘My God, what a target!’ Latimer said. ‘Poor bastards!’

‘Save your sympathy,’ Kelly snapped. He bent to the voice pipe. ‘Fire at will!’

As the searchlights had appeared, the sails of the caïques had been lowered to minimise their size, and as the British ships came round, guns blazing, the little vessels began to scatter.

‘Destroyer, sir,’ Latimer reported. ‘Coming up astern of them! Looks like Lupo class. Modern but small. 3.9-inchers and torpedo tubes.’

The Italian ship was making smoke, which was drifting towards them as she crossed in front of the caïques. Immediately, Indian’s guns crashed out and they saw tall fountains of water lift on either side of the Italian’s bows. The next salvo smashed home just abaft the bridge and they saw a large fire break out. The Italian captain was conducting himself with great courage, thundering towards them with every gun blazing. Turning to comb his torpedoes, they swung back towards the convoy, still hitting the Italian destroyer with everything they possessed, and as she swung away, burning, a complete broadside from Impi struck her on the stern.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Siggis’ exultant voice yelled. ‘Straight up the arse!’

While Impi and Indian had been tackling the escort, Verschoyle had made no mistake about the convoy, and as they swung back to help, they saw that most of the caïques were on fire or sinking. Only three or four seemed to be still afloat and trying to turn north away from the withering fire. They were crowded with men, and were flying the Greek flag, and the destroyers tore into them, snapping and tearing like wolves which had broken into a flock of sheep. Every gun was roaring, pom-poms and machine guns riddling their occupants, and German soldiers were leaping into the sea fully equipped. Between the roars of the guns they could hear the unearthly wailing of drowning men.

As Impi turned, a small wooden schooner appeared ahead from the darkness, filled with a sea of white faces.

‘Ram the bugger, William,’ Kelly said, and Impi’s bows swung.

They saw open mouths yelling, and waving arms, and men started to jump overboard, then Impi’s bows carved through the wooden sides of the schooner with hardly a shudder, crushing wood and metal and flesh and bone. As the two ends of the vessel leapt up, one of the soldiers was flung in the air and, for a second before he disappeared, they saw him on a level with the bridge, his eyes wide in startled horror, his fingers clawing, his legs working as though he were running. All round the ship, men were rolling and tumbling in the wash of the bow wave and the wake, turning over and over in the turbulence, the air full of their shrieks. The schooner’s mast slid along the ship’s side, scraping over it with a scream against the steel, then it snapped off and, as Impi’s stern came round, they could see only disturbed water, a few broken planks and half a dozen bobbing heads.

Nobody on Impi’s bridge spoke. The schooner seemed to have disappeared with all her cargo of men as if she had never existed. It was an appalling slaughter and, as they dragged a few soaked survivors aboard, they realised they had annihilated a battalion of a mountain regiment.

Almost as soon as it was daylight, the dive bombers found them and they had to fight off a spirited attack which, though it brought no casualties, caused slight damage from a near miss to Ashby.

‘Ask all ships to report remaining ammunition,’ Kelly said. ‘We must be running low.’

The replies were disturbing. Impi and Indian reported forty per cent remaining, while Verschoyle’s ships reported only thirty.

‘I suppose we’re doing some good,’ Kelly observed. ‘If only by attracting enemy aircraft away from everybody else.’

‘I’m not sure we are, sir,’ Latimer observed. ‘Force A reports being under heavy attack, and Carlisle’s been damaged. Force C’s also been attacked and they’ve hit Warspite. The two forces are now in company. ‘He looked serious. ‘The war at sea seems, as the fiction writers put it, to have blazed into life. The BBC reports Bismarck and Prinz Eugen are also at sea and heading into the Atlantic.’

‘God help the Atlantic convoys,’ Kelly said. ‘I’ll bet there are a lot of loins being girded up at home just now.’

They were still digesting the thought of the two great ships getting among the merchantmen struggling across from America when they intercepted a signal announcing that the destroyer, Greyhound, and the cruiser, Gloucester, had been sunk.

‘Our turn tomorrow,’ Latimer said.

Almost immediately Rumbelo sang out. ‘Aircraft! Dead ahead!’

‘Earlier than that, William,’ Kelly said. ‘Now.’

As the ships drew closer together to give mutual support, the Stukas came in. Indian was hit by three bombs at once. Two of them blew the after boiler room and the engine-room open to the sea and the third detonated her after magazine. There was a tremendous explosion and as the smoke cleared they could see the ship hanging in the water in two blazing halves, surrounded by bobbing heads.

Their guns still firing, Impi, Chatsworth, Hallamshire and Ashby moved among them, their scrambling nets down, dragging shocked, dazed and oil-soaked men from the sea. Some of them were weeping and it didn’t seem possible that they could take much more without respite. The human system could absorb only so many shocks before it broke down, and courage was a resource that could be drained away by the constant shattering of the nerves.

As they swung south a signal arrived ordering them to sweep inside Kissamo and Canea Bays. There was no time to transfer Indian’s survivors and, as they entered the Antikithera channel, Ashby began to fall behind.

‘Ashby has “Not under control” balls up, sir.’

The signals officer joined in. ‘Ashby reports steering defective,’ he said. ‘Helm jammed twenty degrees to starboard.’

The damage, trivial at any other time, was a portent of disaster and Ashby was studied with dismay. With the constant threat of air attack without any effective defence, with every near miss the bomb with their number on grew mathematically closer, and Kelly could feel tiredness drain away his resolution. It was almost easier to lie down and let things occur as they would.

Ashby’s trouble raised the problem of what to do with her and how to protect her and, for safety, he left her at the entrance to Canea Bay. As they probed into the darkness, almost running down a large caïque which they left burning, she reported her steering defect repaired. By this time every man aboard was exhausted and Kelly couldn’t remember when he had last left the bridge. His muscles ached and he had smoked cigarettes until his mouth felt charred. Most of the duty men, waiting with slumped shoulders at their guns, had remained at their positions through three watches, sustained by food prepared by cooks released briefly from their action stations. On the bridge they were no different, eating stale corned beef sandwiches and dipping dirty mugs into buckets of cocoa.

As they picked up Ashby, they were warned by radio of approaching aircraft and soon after daylight high level Dorniers appeared.

‘Gets a bit like those old Douglas Fairbanks pictures, sir, doesn’t it?’ Latimer said. ‘You’ve no sooner leapt down the stairs and skewered a couple of bandits when you have to swing from the chandeliers on to a table to skewer two more.’

The guns crashed out to keep the bombers high but they were persistent and Kelly saw the bombs falling towards them, a bunch of small black objects coming down in a shallow arc.