Operation Mercury (27 page)

While the bulk of the Allied forces were beginning the gruelling ascent toward the plateau and, from there, down the steep crevice of the Imbros Gorge to Sphakia, the garrisons at Rethymnon and Heraklion remained largely unaware of the unfolding disaster in the west. They, for their part, had acquitted themselves triumphantly: the lodgement at Rethymnon had steadily been eroded and the German survivors further east around Heraklion were depleted, demoralised and completely isolated without the consolation of having attained any of their objectives.

It came as a singularly rude awakening then when Brigadier Chappell summoned his battalion commanders to a conference at his HQ on the morning of the 28th and advised them that they and their men were to be taken off by ship from the port that evening. Total secrecy was to be maintained and the Greek survivors who had fought so valiantly alongside the Allies were to be left in ignorance – there were simply not enough boats available.

This was galling for the British and Australian officers, to abandon these brave Allies to the summary justice of the
Fallschirmjäger
. One of the most popular officers in the Black Watch, whose companies had fought Brauer to a standstill, Major Hamilton, who had vowed that ‘the Black Watch leaves Crete when the snow leaves Mount Ida' ,had become a casualty that very morning.

As Chappell and his HQ staff set about the dispiriting business of burning and destroying, one of Pendlebury's partisan contacts appeared and made a passionate appeal that the Allies hand over any equipment they could; there was no rebuke for the abandonment. The brigadier was deeply moved by the man's courage and bearing, and promptly complied. Everything that could be used was given to the Cretans.
¹⁴

That evening the troops, astonished that they were now to flee from a field they believed won, went about the grim chores of disabling guns and vehicles, burying ammunition stocks, destroying and contaminating anything that might succour the invaders. In the event the evacuation proceeded in text book fashion. Silently the battalions filed down toward the port, leaving behind all of the familiar landmarks they had thought safe. The city was in little better state than Chania, the bombing had devastated large areas, with the stink of raw sewage and the pervading reek of decaying corpses heavy in the night air.

Patrick Leigh Fermor
¹⁵
noticed what appeared to be a nervous, rather boyish soldier who turned out to be a Cretan sweetheart. He simply decided to look the other way. This young lady was not unique for a number of others and a few civilians managed to get aboard the rescue vessels. These were under the command of Rear Admiral Rawlings with the cruisers
Orion
and
Dido
¹⁶
, escorted by half a dozen destroyers. In all the ships took off 3.486 troops; the entire garrison.
¹⁷

Inevitably, small groups from outlying posts and the wounded crowded into the hospital at Knossos were left behind, only hearing the news of their abandonment from locals. Some simply waited for captivity, others prepared to cross the mountains to reach the south coast and some took to the hills with Cretan partisans.

It was now the early hours of 29 May after a flawless evacuation but the destroyer
Imperial
had suffered undetected damage during the earlier bomb attacks and her steering gear jammed completely.
Hotspur
was instructed to take off the complement of crew and soldiers. This too, was carried out with great efficiency but a small cadre of Australians who had earlier sought solace in liquor were by now utterly insensible. When the stricken ship was sunk by torpedos, they went to the bottom with her.

As the heavily laden
Hotspur
struggled to catch up, the remainder of the squadron was obliged to cut their speed to no more than 15 knots. In a grim replay of the previous action at sea the first bright rays of daylight found the ships north of the Kaso Strait. Almost immediately the dreaded siren wail of the Stukas pierced the clear morning air; an overture for six hours' relentless hammering from above.

Orion
was hit twice and bracketed by half a dozen near misses. Bursting through the armour plate, the bombs tore into the bowels of the vessel and exploded amongst the densely packed evacuees, nearly 300 were killed outright in the inferno and as many more injured. Ironically it was those who'd volunteered to chance the deck and man Bren guns that escaped.

Dido
was also struck with similar results as a bomb penetrated the crowded canteen, leaving another 100 men dead. Some wounded survivors were drowned as the area was flooded to contain the flames.
Hereward
, too had become a casualty. It was evening by the time the damaged flotilla steamed, battered and gaping, into Alexandria; almost 20 per cent of the garrison, taken off without loss, had been lost in the sea chase.

The situation which unfolded at Rethymnon was somewhat different. Campbell had succeeded in eliminating or severely shaking the two German lodgements to the east and west of his sector; that aside, matters had been reasonably stable. Like Chappell he had no immediate appreciation of just how bad things were generally and the Naval officer, commanding a supply drop from Souda on the 28th, carried no fresh orders. Lieutenant Haig could, however, intimate that he was ordered to make for Sphakia and that some kind of a general retreat southwards appeared to be in the offing.

In fact no orders reached Campbell. He had not completely destroyed the German positions to the west and ruled out a concerted attack to re-open the coast road; both of his tanks had been written off in the attempts. His orders were to hold the airstrip; that he had done, most admirably, and would continue to do. By now, however, Wittman's Advanced Guard was steaming eastwards, the 85 and 141 Alpine Regiments were following on and, at last, Ringel could call on full armoured support – tanks from 31 Armoured Regiment had been successfully disembarked at Kastelli.

This powerful battle group, far stronger than anything the Allies could now scrape together, was to relieve firstly Rethymnon and then Heraklion. As previously noted it was this entirely logical appreciation that had allowed the tattered tail of Freyberg's army to turn southward, largely unmolested, but it spelt the end for the garrison at Rethymnon. It was only around dusk on the 29th that Campbell heard the shocking news that Heraklion was abandoned. Worse still, German patrols were already probing the town of Rethymnon and ranging shells from their artillery were beginning their drumming dirge. That night the Australians held sad vigil by the beach, flashing torches into the darkness in the hope that the Navy had vessels lying offshore but none came. Next morning the pressure was swiftly increased. Campbell was clinging to the aerodrome with the 2/1st – Sandover commanded the 2/11th. Evidence of the German strength was all too obvious; the outposts were already being driven in.

Campbell came to the conclusion that there was little point in going on and that there was no option but the bitter pill of capitulation. Sandover disagreed. He believed that anyone prepared to take the chance should be given leave to take to the hills. In the event he, with a gallant band of thirteen officers and thirty-nine other ranks, did just that and, after many adventures, they were rescued from the south coast by submarine.

At 8.30 a.m. on 29 May Campbell and the rest surrendered, plodding through the ravaged landscape and marching into captivity with the added humiliation of being made to pull the trailers containing enemy equipment:

Having mopped up resistance at Rethymnon, Wittman forged westwards to Heraklion where Brauer's survivors had emerged to take control of the ruins. The charge was spent, he sent a fast flying column of motorcyclists toward Aghios Nikolaos. Their mission was to link up with the Italians. Determined to play his part in the tragedy of Crete, Il Duce had sent amphibious forces to occupy the eastern extremity of the island around Sitia on 28 May. These fresh invaders, landing from the Dodecanese, were not engaged after the battle was safely won. Italian gunboats had launched some half hearted spoiling attacks on Royal Navy vessels and the port of Ierapetra had been bombed on the 25th.

Lawrence Pumphrey, having managed to reach the beach, was amongst those taken prisoner. His brother John, who'd acted as a movement officer in the final stages of the evacuation, found himself a passenger in a Sunderland flying boat, but his brother officers and troopers were left behind.

With his lacerated feet too painful even to hobble, Lawrence was driven into captivity on the back of a German truck. Like so many Allied prisoners he found he had little personal animosity toward his captors. They, for their part, behaved well. Food was scarce but, after a few days on the north side of the island, he was flown back to Athens, a very different journey from the first. He was amongst a group of British prisoners, temporarily held in an old Greek barrack pile at Salonika. The buildings were so infested it was deemed wisest to sleep out on the parade ground. Some weeks later the prisoners were herded into cattle trucks for the long journey north. At Belgrade they received welcome succour from the Red Cross. At Lübeck they were put into a newly constructed camp. Lawrence was suffering from jaundice and shivering in his battered tropical kit. Later that year he was moved to a vast compound at Warburg, situated on the cold, bare expanse of the Westphalian Plain. He remained a year in Warburg where, with others, he planned to escape by means of a tunnel. By this time officers and men had been segregated, though he still had the company of a handful of fellow Noodles who'd all been captured on Crete. In June 1943, he was part of a mass escape from the camp at Eistedt in Bavaria. Sixty-five prisoners tunnelled clear of the camp but were subsequently all re-captured. Lawrence Pumphrey finished the war in Colditz.

Despite these continuing reverses and the collapse of the Allied position, the Cretans attached no blame to the individual soldiers whom they continued to help, despite the inevitability of murderous reprisals. As Sandover and his party were about to take their leave by submarine, one of the local volunteers said this to him: ‘Major, my greatest wish is that you will take a glass of wine in my house the day we are free. That is all I wish to live for.'
²⁰

No more eloquent testimony could be desired.

Admiral Cunningham belonged firmly to the Sea Dog tradition of Hawkins and Drake but he also cared passionately for both the men and ships under his command. The devastation which the air-sea encounters had wrought upon his tired fleet affected him deeply:

The choice was a stark one; to send these battered ships out again to attempt to rescue the bulk of the Crete garrison from Sphakia, was fraught with great risk. The fleet simply could not withstand another round with the Luftwaffe. The relatively minor evacuation from Heraklion had already shown, in all too graphic terms, what aerial bombardment could do to crowded vessels; what horrors might then accrue on the larger scale.

For the thousands who would be waiting on the beaches, this could only mean surrender – the loss of the entire garrison. It was a prospect too dreadful to contemplate. From Corunna to Dunkirk the Navy had always achieved the miraculous. It had been done again in Greece and must now be attempted from Crete. It might, as the Admiral observed, take years to construct a battle fleet but 300 years of tradition, once lost, could never be recovered. The operation would proceed.

South from the Askifou Plateau the road now swings around a dizzying round of hairpin bends as it drops nearly 2,500 feet to the narrow coastal plain, the great bulk of the mountains rearing up behind, crowding the ribbon of shore. In May 1941 this road did not exist, it had not been finished, coming to an abrupt halt at the mouth of the Imbros Gorge where it spilled from the rim of the plateau.

The gorge is truly daunting, a narrow, precipitous canyon of broken rock and scrub that opens like an abyss, as dry as sandpaper and hot as a flaming cauldron. It was this descent which now confronted the unbelievably weary survivors, nor was there time to draw halt or seek a respite; the dogs of war were hot on their trail.

During the hours of darkness on the night of 30 May the Germans began to move across the plateau; by dawn they were at the mouth of the gorge. The ‘Saucer', as Askifou was dubbed, was defended by the two Australian battalions, supported by the final trio of light tanks, all that remained of the injured Roy Farran's original detachment. The pass itself was held by the 23rd.

Colonel Utz, with the final, clear-cut victory in sight, was not inclined to take undue risks, ‘sweat saves blood' as, for the Germans, did the Luftwaffe. The demands of Barbarossa had, as noted, denuded the available squadrons so pressure from the air was less overwhelming than before. The Axis troops had pilfered large amounts of discarded Allied tropical kit and had even plundered civilian garments, including ladies' underwear, to form makeshift headscarves.

True to Ringel's doctrine Utz opted for outflanking moves, seeking to find a way around the heights at the head of the pass and thus cut off the defenders holding the mouth. One prong of this attack was thwarted by the adverse topography but the second element, guided by a collaborator, succeeded in almost cutting the pass.

Brigadier Inglis immediately replied by sending in Lieutenant Upham's company from the 20th. A confused fight developed among the wilderness of rock and wild rhododendron, the Germans were checked and driven back with loss – one Kiwi was reputedly dangled by the calves to fire his Bren around a difficult corner.

If the fighting troops were still full of fire, the scene at Sphakia was considerably less edifying. Thousands of exhausted and ragged men, all discipline and cohesion gone, crowded the narrow ribbon of coast, living like vagabonds or wreckers in the many limestone caves that riddled the hillsides. They were without arms or equipment, leadership or control, a rabble of bacaudae or bouche inutiles.
²

During the night of 28/29 May the Navy made its first run to the south coast. A trio of destroyers sailed at full throttle to take off 744 men, including many of those wounded. This operation was accomplished without loss. The RAF had pledged a maximum effort to provide adequate cover and, though the friendly planes missed the flotilla and despite the attentions of prowling Ju88s, no casualties were sustained.

Next evening a far larger formation, Force ‘D', commanded by Rear Admiral King, and comprising cruisers
Phoebe
and
Perth
, two anti-aircraft cruisers,
Coventry
and
Calcutta
, together with a quartet of destroyers and the landing vessel
Glengyle
, set sail for Sphakia.

As he was steaming north, the tattered survivors from Heraklion limped into port and Cunningham, having conferred with Wavell, who in turn spoke to Tedder and Blamey to glean the airmen's view, signalled Whitehall to advise of the continuing losses. He warned of still greater loss should more vessels, particularly the vulnerable
Glengyle,
be lost.

Should further efforts be limited to destroyers only? In spite of the prevailing climate of despondency Cunningham was prepared to try the last and risk all. The Admiralty attempted a compromise suggesting
Glengyle
be recalled. By then (the signal was not received till nearly 8.30 p.m.), it was too late, Force D was committed in its entirety. To assist, Cunningham dispatched a further three destroyers.

That night some 6,000 men were taken off, an amazing feat given the host of difficulties – the boats from
Glengyle
proved their worth as ferries. The Luftwaffe did put in an appearance, Perth suffered a hit to her boiler room but, at least in part, due to the RAF shield, the air attacks proved neither as sustained nor as damaging as before. More and more German planes were being withdrawn from the sector to meet the timetable for Barbarossa and this relentless siphoning of aircraft undoubtedly helped to relieve the pressure.

On the 30th another flotilla, this time made up entirely of destroyers
Napier, Nizam, Kelvin
and
Kandahar
steamed out of Alexandria. These ships, under Captain Arliss were less fortunate.
Kandahar
developed engine trouble and
Kelvin
was damaged by bombs; both were obliged to return. Nonetheless Arliss proceeded with the two remaining vessels and, using the boats left by
Glengyle
, lifted a further 1,400 from the beaches; no mean achievement.

Exhausted, filthy and ragged survivors marvelled at the calm, clean efficiency of the Navy who provided food, hot coffee and medical facilities. They had been rescued from a squalid world of defeat and confusion, indiscipline and disorder into what seemed an unreal haven. As Dr Stephanides observed wryly: ‘even the officers' uniforms were neat.'
³

The ships slipped away in the pre dawn but, despite an RAF escort, were pounced on by dive bombers, screaming down out of the morning sun.
Napier
was hit and for an anxious while lay dead in the water. Kippenberger, who was on board, suddenly felt the thought of safe deliverance might have been premature:

Despite the fury of the attack and amid the rattle of the Oerlikons, spattering rifles and Brens, the crew managed to get the stricken vessel under way and she staggered safely into port. Kippenberger's men, spruced up and shaven, disembarked in an orderly manner. Their country had every right to be immensely proud of them.

Another who departed, this time by flying boat that same night, was General Freyberg who left Weston in command of the beaches. This was a very difficult moment for a commander who cared deeply for his men, racked by guilt that elements of the New Zealanders must inevitably be left behind. The fact that he and his staff had knowledge of ULTRA intercepts meant their feelings in the matter were of no account, their capture must be avoided.

Hargest led the remains of the 5 Brigade down the narrow defile from Askifou on the morning of the 30th – the contrast between the fighting troops and the rabble they encountered was startling. All pretence of military bearing and formation had now gone, to the extent the Kiwis had to set up a steel tipped line of pickets to deter the mob from rushing the ships.

Priority was given to the formed infantry though not all would be accommodated – HQ units and officers, the necessary core of any unit, were taken off first then as many NCOs and other ranks as could be accommodated. Such was the press of
bouches inutiles
that the final rearguard from the 28th stood with their arms, including sub-machine guns, at the ready.

Despite the damage sustained by Arliss' flotilla, Cunningham once again sent Rear Admiral King with cruisers
Phoebe, Abdiel
and a brace of escorting destroyers on the morning of the 31st. This last effort netted another 4,000 safely taken off that night.
Calcutta
, which had been subsequently deployed to provide anti-aircraft cover did not return.

Subsequently, there was some bitterness that all of the senior officers appear to have been got safely off: ‘One of the worst episodes in that affair was the notion that superior officers were specially valuable, that there was an obligation on them to save themselves… .'
⁵

A case in point is the controversy which has arisen over Colonel Laycock. The commandos, who had done an excellent job as part of the rearguard, were the last to descend to the beachhead and Freyberg, prior to his departure, issued orders that they would be the last fighting troops to embark. Although this was confirmed by Weston on the 31st, Laycock then advised these orders had been amended as he still had two full battalions in Egypt, so that he and his HQ, including Waugh, got off.

In a personal memoir Waugh appears to suggest that Laycock had arranged the matter after a private talk with Weston – the General decided that for the commandos to be captured would be a greater loss than the unfortunate Colvin who was elected to stay in his place.

Graham, Layforce's Brigade Major, was dispatched by his colonel to attend Weston and Colvin in what remained of Creforce HQ. There Graham was ordered to write down the orders for capitulation which detailed the luckless Colvin to proceed at first light and surrender to the first German detachment. Weston, leaving the two junior officers with a spare bottle of gin and a reserve fund of 1,000.000 drachmae, then left his HQ to be taken off by flying boat.

If Graham thought this spelt the end for him he was mistaken, for Laycock and Waugh appeared very soon afterward and gathered all available Layforce personnel for evacuation. Clearly Laycock had no intention of being left behind. Despite the rather dubious provenance of his orders, the prevailing climate of
sauve qui peut
dictated that all who could escape, did.

A degree of confusion arose over the situation of Young's detachment strung out in the hills covering the approaches, along with the marines and the 2/7th Australians. In the event, although advised of the possibility of evacuation that night by Waugh's batman Private Ralph ‘Lofty' Tanner, Young did not make the beachhead. As Colvin appears to have slipped away with Laycock, Waugh, Graham and the rump of Layforce, the unenviable task of negotiating the final capitulation fell to him.

Though the commandos appeared to have jumped the queue, the 2/7th Australians filed down to the beachhead, a difficult and frustrating journey as they had a long march through the crowded night. Their disappointment can only be imagined when they found themselves stranded and that the last of the ships had departed. They had fought hard and well throughout and, until this bitter moment, had no thoughts of throwing in the towel; indeed they were inclined to seek orders to fire on those who were already laying out white flags.

As he set off on his search for a German to surrender to, leaving his adjutant, Michael Borwick, to break the news to the men
⁶
, Young encountered Colonel Walker, commanding the 2/7th and, as he was senior, passed the poisoned chalice to him. Walker walked alone toward the village of Komithades where he offered his surrender to an officer from the 100 Mountain Regiment.
⁷
The Battle for Crete was at last over.

In fact it was not quite over. As a group of Allied soldiers left behind on the beach, believing hostilities now at an end, tried to get a cooking fire going they attracted the attention of an Me109 which, as the Luftwaffe presumably had not yet been informed of the capitulation, opened fire. The strafing killed one man and filled a wounded sergeant with another dozen bullets. German soldiers who tried to attract the plane's attention were also shot up.

Though most seemed to accept the reality of surrender with resignation, others were traumatised:

Amongst those waiting for captivity two groups in particular had reason to be especially apprehensive – these were the commandos generally and particularly the Spanish Republican element. Hitler tended to favour shooting special forces and so everyone prudently divested themselves of their knuckle duster daggers, ‘fannies' as they were called. The Spaniards' medical officer, Captain Cochrane, came up with the inspired notion that the men should pose as volunteers from Gibraltar.