The Girl Under the Olive Tree (20 page)

‘There is somewhere I’d rather like to visit later, another beach further west, if you don’t mind?’ I asked.

‘No problem, especially if we can hear more about your Cave Nurse adventures.’

That nickname, given to me by the press in later years, always embarrassed me. It was only one tiny episode from my time here. No one ever realized how complicated my life became because of it. Never complain, never explain, they say, but if there’s to be any peace in returning here I must relive those dangerous days before and after the fall of Crete. Besides, there are secrets from that time, I’ve never shared with anyone, secrets that have burdened me for years. Perhaps now will be the time to offload them once and for all?

Brecht stood in the village street looking up at the war memorial by Galatas church. Memories came flooding back as he walked up the steep hill, leaning on his stick. The wreckage of old houses was transformed, painted and pristine once more, the
kafenion
was exactly how he remembered it. How could this now peaceful hamlet have been the sight of a pitched battle of such ferocity?

These streets were taken and lost, over and over. Brave men on both sides died in those little alleyways, sacrificing their lives for a strategic hill post and guns. The tide of this epic struggle ebbed, flowed and finally crashed over the heads of soldiers and civilians alike, but he could claim nothing of the victory when it came. He was in another place by then. It was time to retrace that terrible journey one more time.

For days after landing, what was left of his battalion patrolled outside the relative security of the thick walls of Agia Prison compound, making forays into the surrounding olive and citrus groves, gathering up remnants of shattered battalions still hiding, bringing in the wounded and burying the dead. Morale was low as they stuck helmets on grave markers. Devastation was all around them: flattened trees, dead animals, broken gliders, the detritus of a failed operation. Hardened men blanched at the carnage.

It was then that, for some, sorrow turned into anger. Rainer wasn’t always there to stop some of the reprisals taken out on villagers who’d defied them and taken up arms. Whole villages were razed to the ground; men, women and children taken out and shot. No trials, no mercy. He didn’t like such summary justice but he knew where it was coming from. The defiance had been brutal so the reprisal must be equally so.

This sullen avoidance, the snipers in the olive trees, the way they had sheltered British troops in their homes, tearing up leaflets warning them of the consequences, meant trouble. Then there was that look of utter contempt in the eyes of men facing eternity as they stood before the firing squad, singing their anthems of freedom and death. Rainer had never seen such bravery. It unnerved him to realize that the more they shot, the more others would take their places. He feared the consequences for his men should they lose.

Whoever had advised intelligence of a welcome here should be shot himself. There would be no flowers strewn before them as conquering heroes, only bullets, knives in their backs or stones. But orders were orders and must be obeyed. Freedom fighters would not be subject to the Geneva Convention. Instant reprisal sent a firm message that if a village resisted it would be destroyed.

Now there were fresh orders to secure the road from the airstrip to Chania city and the hillside village of Galatas. There was constant cover from the Dorniers flying above them and the first attack had gone well. They had secured houses, but then there had been an attempt to retake the village. Two brave tanks had appeared out of nowhere, but were soon blasted, stricken and useless, with wounded New Zealanders in shorts and tin helmets taking cover as best they could.

Now it was time to battle it out at the top of the hill. Rainer felt oddly calm, though he knew only the strongest would be alive at the end of the day. He felt as if he was entering into some strange tunnel of concentration. Kill or be killed, his only purpose was to fulfil his command orders.

He saw men rise and fall, rise and die, and still the enemy came up. He stood forward, watching for the unexpected, but the grenade that came flying took him by surprise. He felt no pain at first as a hand dragged him under cover, out of danger. He watched what was happening around him as if it were a film show in slow motion.

He saw the dark-skinned Maoris yelling in a strange tongue, a roar that sent his troops faltering and retreating, leaving him at the mercy of enemy troops. He felt his life sifting through his fingers like sand. There was no hope now and he felt oddly calm waiting for it to end . . .

He woke to find a water bottle at his lips and a tourniquet on his shattered leg. He was being jolted downhill on a board as a makeshift stretcher. Was he a prisoner or had his own medics pulled him clear? He was too dazed to care.

The hands that held the stretcher were tanned like leather. He felt no fear, only surprise that he’d not been finished off in the street. He’d seen enough soldiers being given the
coup de grâce
. Was he going to Maleme, to be flown out to Athens, or onto a hospital ship anchored in the bay? Surely his war couldn’t be over when it had only just begun? The pain of his leg wound started racing through his body, and he kept passing in and out of consciousness. He heard himself crying, ‘
Wasser, Wasser
,’ desperate to down the bottle in one go.

Where were his men? Was the battle still going on? Shutting his eyes he saw once more his own senior officer and others felled at a stroke, bodies hanging like grapes from a tree. It was a shambles, an utter shambles. They didn’t deserve to die like rooks, all those hand-picked boys lost in the attempt to secure the island.
Operation Mercury
– what a cursed code-name. He could do nothing now except bear the pain. He knew he was dreaming when a hand with slender fingers clutched his wrist, feeling for his pulse. He opened his eyes to see a young woman in khaki staring down at him. Her hair was bleached white by the sun yet she had the darkest eyes he’d ever seen.

He lay back with relief, knowing he could sleep for a hundred years to be woken by such a face.

This is impossible, thought Penny as she tried to mop Doug Forsyth’s brow while he struggled to close up a complex amputation close to the thigh. They had pushed the operating table near to the cave entrance to gain as much light as they could. The conditions underfoot were appalling: slippery from body fluids and mud, with a stench of ether and infection that no swig of raki could ever stifle, and everywhere flies hovered over the wounded.

The orderlies were helping the stretcher cases to relieve themselves in tin cans, and others were dishing out tea sweetened with condensed milk from the last of their supplies.

‘I think it may be time for plan B,’ Penny whispered in Doug’s ear as, later, they sipped the last of the tea ration. She felt filthy and sweaty in her battle shirt and baggy trousers, but they gave protection from the biting insects and the fierce sun beating down on their tattered camp, and also made her stand out less from the male nurses.

‘I hoped it would never come to this,’ Doug said, ‘but we owe it to our patients to try anything.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Penny offered, knowing how reluctant he was in taking this risk.

‘No, it was my idea,’ he snapped. His face ashen from tension and weariness.

Plan B was Doug’s idea of flying the enemy’s flag. It was a dangerous ploy, but there was a job to do and no time for reflection on what might happen next.

‘We’ll wait till dusk and do it together,’ she suggested and he nodded. The two of them stretched out two captured Swastika flags next to the Red Cross one, which had so far kept some of the gun-toting raiders from the hospital. A few hours after dawn a Dornier obligingly dumped some crates of medical supplies and food that would save lives.

All the time, wounded from both sides were being off-loaded into the casualty tents. These patients had to wait their turn, lying in the sun, groaning and calling out. Those that were conscious looked up in surprise and relief to see a woman assessing their wounds. One young soldier, half delirious, was screaming out, ‘
Mutter, Mutter!
’ holding his hand out to her as if she were indeed his mother come to nurse him.

Penny kneeled down and clasped his hand, feeling for his pulse as it weakened, waiting, watching as it faded away to nothing. She covered him and stood in silence for a second while a voice from a German officer croaked in halting English, ‘That was kindly done, Nurse.’

She examined the officer’s gashed leg without speaking, nodded curtly and checked over his filthy dressing, replacing it with a fresh one, aware he could see that these were pads from German medical supplies, not British issue. He made no comment.

His eyes never left her face as if he were examining her motives in helping his men, wondering, no doubt, what a woman was doing only half a mile from a battle front.

For some reason she felt it important not to speak to him, so she asked an orderly to finish dealing with him, as slowly she went down the never-ending line to examine the fresh intake, searching out those most in need of treatment. The officer would be put with the other POWs in the far cave and guarded. Had he noticed the German flags? It was in everyone’s interests to be free from strafing. He couldn’t object to that, surely, but if he did and they were captured, they might all be shot. She pushed that fearful thought away.

That evening she watched one of those magnificent saffron sunsets, so soothing on the soul after such a bloody day. Penny was lying back, trying to gather up what was left of her flagging energy for more operations, when a staff vehicle drove into the compound. Penny looked up to see a familiar face staring at her as he strode over. His blazing look of fury said it all.

‘I knew it must be you, but I had to see for myself who was the crazy woman they say swears like a Greek navvy. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ Bruce Jardine yelled.

‘And it’s very nice to see you, too,’ she quipped, too tired to respond to him. ‘Can’t you see we’re busy?’ She made to storm off.

‘Not so fast,’ he yelled. ‘What the hell are you doing here in a battlefield?’

‘What I am trained to do. Just let me get on with it.’

‘Orders are to shift this hospital, medics and instruments away from Chania, further inland to a place called Neo Chorio. The lorries will come to pick up wounded at eleven hundred hours under escort. I hope you have the sense to obey orders. Honestly, Penny, this is crazy . . . Have you no sense of the danger you’re in?’

‘What’s happening out there?’

‘Don’t ask me, I only do what I’m told, but it’s not looking too good. I want you out of here on the first truck.’ Bruce stared round at the chaos. He called in the rest of the staff and repeated the news.

‘We’ll need time to move the worst cases,’ said Doug. ‘And we’ve got POWs.’

‘They’ll have to fend for themselves. From what I can gather, they won’t have long to wait for their own doctors. Maleme airport has fallen and there are fresh troops landing every hour now. Our boys can’t hold out much longer even though they’re putting up a brave show. Sister here must be evacuated before that.’

‘I’ll take my chances,’ Penny replied.

‘You’ll do as you’re told. Don’t let me have to pull rank on you,’ Pete said as he flicked flies from his face.

‘I’ll finish my rounds. We still have a few hours. Why are we standing round like statues?’ Penny snapped to the orderlies. ‘We must decide who is fit to travel and who is not. Some of them will not survive a journey. I won’t be responsible for unnecessary deaths.’

As the others shot off to spread the news, Bruce caught hold of her arm. ‘Promise me you’ll take the first transport. You’ve done your whack. You’ve been marvellous, a real morale boost. Your parents will be so proud, but not if you’re dead. No more heroics.’ Bruce pulled her towards him. ‘It’s dangerous out there now . . . please, Penny.’

She felt the full power of his eyes boring into hers and her resolve weakening. He cared, and the way he was looking at her made her heart thud. She nodded. ‘I’ll go when Dr Forsyth and Dr Ellis go, but I’m needed now.’

Suddenly the camp was a bustle of collecting up the walking wounded, patching up others who could stand, gathering up instruments, belongings and records. There was no time to think, only relief that they’d soon be out of this flea-ridden sandpit.

The trucks arrived on time with an escort, and the evacuation began in earnest. Only walking wounded,’ ordered the officer in charge of the evacuation. ‘We can’t take stretchers. Let’s have them up on the lorries. If they can hold a gun . . .’

‘If they carry a gun or helmet, the convoy will be shot at. The red cross on the side will mean nothing then,’ Barnes, the orderly, argued to a sergeant, who looked up at him with disdain.

‘I suppose we must take some of your fairies with us too.’

Barnes made to punch him but Penny got between them. ‘What about all our stretcher cases? Who’s coming for them?’

‘Another truck will be dispatched, at zero three hundred hours. Come on, Sister, up you come. Captain Jardine said there was a female . . .’ He ogled her with interest.

‘I’ll be on the next delivery, must get the others ready,’ she replied, ignoring him, then waving the men off.

The medical staff worked through the night, labelling up the patients. It worried Penny that some were barely conscious, still groggy from operations, while others had fevers and infections.

She was glad when the hour came and the expected transport convoy was late arriving, but when dawn broke and there was still no sign, she sensed all was not well.

‘Do you think they’ve forgotten us?’ she asked Doug, who was packing a box of operating instruments.

He shrugged. ‘Who knows what’s going on out there?’

Just as they’d given up hope a solitary truck arrived. Bruce jumped out of the cab, looking pleased with himself.

‘We can take medics and some orderlies and Sister George, for evacuation down to the south coast.’