The driver's cab of the Italian Breda-32 was stuffy, to put things bluntly. Myles' nose twitched with each intake of the fat Cretan driver's body odour.
"I take you fast," the Cretan had said. "I get you there quickly."
Myles had turned to find someone less eager to arrive at the front, but a Greek colonel had chased him with a cane. A series of whiskey induced insults flew in short order, with the Greek colonel uttering "Πάρτε για αυτό το δειλός φορτηγό , σας ξέρω !" behind a drawn revolver. Myles had relented; he had thought of taking the matter up with his commanding officer, but for the time being, he had to hide himself from view. One could only escape battle so many times before someone looked into the matter, as France had shown him.
Air raid sirens were blaring from the low-built town of Heraklion, and peering out from the dusty wind shield of the Breda, Myles' stomach sunk as he saw in the horizon a fleet of German war planes heading for the town. Stukas, probably, he reasoned. They would bomb everything of importance first, and then it would be time for the German's airborne green devils to take the jump. He was immediately thankful that his fat companion had driven them around the town's outskirts, rather than through it.
"Not long. Look," the driver babbled.
Myles looked ahead, and saw British Army trucks on the move at an approaching junction. No doubt they were heading to reinforce the town's westerly defenders, and Myles' platoon had likewise orders. He sighed, and reached for another swig of whiskey.
***
The Breda pulled up alongside the more modern and efficient British Bedford QLs. Twelve in total, which meant at least Myles had some serious backup. He immediately exited the driver's cab, pleased to be away from the fat Cretan's body odour, and in the fresh air.
Looking around, he took note of his surroundings. Sandbags and shallow trenches formed a wide cemicircle; ahead was sparse woodland and low lying shrub. Anti-aircraft guns of various nationalities and years of production were dotted about the place, having been moved out from hiding the night before. Intelligence had asserted that Fritz would make two assaults on the town - both airborne. One would fall to the west, and one to the east.
What Myles was looking at was the Commonwealth's first and perhaps last line of defence against the German's westerly assault. Behind the line, about two miles or so, sat Heraklion. The officer winced as he saw the German planes make their dives, dropping incendiary charges and unleashing their cannons on whatever took their interest.
"Mr. Hedger," someone called. "Where is your platoon?"
Myles winced. It was Lieutenant Bailey of the 14th Infantry Brigade. He led a platoon of British infantry attached to the brigade, and had been designated as the local commander for Myles' area of operations.
"Lieutenant Bailey, a pleasure to see you," Myles said, all smiles, as he turned.
"Your platoon, Hedger," Bailey snapped.
Myles almost shrugged, but then stopped himself at the last second. "These Italian trucks don't move like ours, Lieutenant. They'll be along in short order."
As if a saving grace sent by God himself, four more Bredas rattled down the roadway and parked themselves next to Myles' truck. His platoon disembarked in short order, displaying a mish-mash of Greek and Commonwealth uniforms, and some civilian clothes.
Bailey stifled a laugh, and replaced it with a very British, "Christ."
"Yeah," Myles replied, swaying slightly with the whiskey.
"Well that wont do. A second rate officer with a third rate platoon. What does that blasted Freyberg think he's playing at? We're at war! How can I hold this line with ... oh forget it," Bailey muttered. He turned sharply to Myles. "Have your men deploy along the south line. I trust they can use the three Bofors?"
Myles looked at the three AA guns, dotted down the line and surrounded by neat sandbag circles. Probably not, he thought. "Of course, sir."
"Good. See to it that your position is manned," Bailey said, and turned to walk off back to his own men.
"Yes sir," Myles responded with a stiff salute.
"Oh and Mr. Hedger," Bailey said, stopping to look at Myles. "There's no running from this fight. I've heard a bit about you - a legend somewhat. Two wars, and only three battles. If your men pull out of here before mine do, I'll shoot you myself. I'm not letting any bull shit excuses pardon you from what's right."
Myles sighed inwardly. "Yes sir, understood."
Leaving Bailey to bark his orders at his more impressive collection of soldiers, Myles turned to his own.
"Sergeant Harris, take a section of men, and man the southern-most point of the line," he said with slurred but loud speech, "Sergeant Stathos-" he paused to take in the Greek man's apparel. This is my other sergeant?. "Er, Sergeant Stathos, take another section and man the northern area of our line. Whoever is left, you're with me in the centre."
Crude Operations Map
"I take you fast," the Cretan had said. "I get you there quickly."
Myles had turned to find someone less eager to arrive at the front, but a Greek colonel had chased him with a cane. A series of whiskey induced insults flew in short order, with the Greek colonel uttering "Πάρτε για αυτό το δειλός φορτηγό , σας ξέρω !" behind a drawn revolver. Myles had relented; he had thought of taking the matter up with his commanding officer, but for the time being, he had to hide himself from view. One could only escape battle so many times before someone looked into the matter, as France had shown him.
Air raid sirens were blaring from the low-built town of Heraklion, and peering out from the dusty wind shield of the Breda, Myles' stomach sunk as he saw in the horizon a fleet of German war planes heading for the town. Stukas, probably, he reasoned. They would bomb everything of importance first, and then it would be time for the German's airborne green devils to take the jump. He was immediately thankful that his fat companion had driven them around the town's outskirts, rather than through it.
"Not long. Look," the driver babbled.
Myles looked ahead, and saw British Army trucks on the move at an approaching junction. No doubt they were heading to reinforce the town's westerly defenders, and Myles' platoon had likewise orders. He sighed, and reached for another swig of whiskey.
The Breda pulled up alongside the more modern and efficient British Bedford QLs. Twelve in total, which meant at least Myles had some serious backup. He immediately exited the driver's cab, pleased to be away from the fat Cretan's body odour, and in the fresh air.
Looking around, he took note of his surroundings. Sandbags and shallow trenches formed a wide cemicircle; ahead was sparse woodland and low lying shrub. Anti-aircraft guns of various nationalities and years of production were dotted about the place, having been moved out from hiding the night before. Intelligence had asserted that Fritz would make two assaults on the town - both airborne. One would fall to the west, and one to the east.
What Myles was looking at was the Commonwealth's first and perhaps last line of defence against the German's westerly assault. Behind the line, about two miles or so, sat Heraklion. The officer winced as he saw the German planes make their dives, dropping incendiary charges and unleashing their cannons on whatever took their interest.
"Mr. Hedger," someone called. "Where is your platoon?"
Myles winced. It was Lieutenant Bailey of the 14th Infantry Brigade. He led a platoon of British infantry attached to the brigade, and had been designated as the local commander for Myles' area of operations.
"Lieutenant Bailey, a pleasure to see you," Myles said, all smiles, as he turned.
"Your platoon, Hedger," Bailey snapped.
Myles almost shrugged, but then stopped himself at the last second. "These Italian trucks don't move like ours, Lieutenant. They'll be along in short order."
As if a saving grace sent by God himself, four more Bredas rattled down the roadway and parked themselves next to Myles' truck. His platoon disembarked in short order, displaying a mish-mash of Greek and Commonwealth uniforms, and some civilian clothes.
Bailey stifled a laugh, and replaced it with a very British, "Christ."
"Yeah," Myles replied, swaying slightly with the whiskey.
"Well that wont do. A second rate officer with a third rate platoon. What does that blasted Freyberg think he's playing at? We're at war! How can I hold this line with ... oh forget it," Bailey muttered. He turned sharply to Myles. "Have your men deploy along the south line. I trust they can use the three Bofors?"
Myles looked at the three AA guns, dotted down the line and surrounded by neat sandbag circles. Probably not, he thought. "Of course, sir."
"Good. See to it that your position is manned," Bailey said, and turned to walk off back to his own men.
"Yes sir," Myles responded with a stiff salute.
"Oh and Mr. Hedger," Bailey said, stopping to look at Myles. "There's no running from this fight. I've heard a bit about you - a legend somewhat. Two wars, and only three battles. If your men pull out of here before mine do, I'll shoot you myself. I'm not letting any bull shit excuses pardon you from what's right."
Myles sighed inwardly. "Yes sir, understood."
Leaving Bailey to bark his orders at his more impressive collection of soldiers, Myles turned to his own.
"Sergeant Harris, take a section of men, and man the southern-most point of the line," he said with slurred but loud speech, "Sergeant Stathos-" he paused to take in the Greek man's apparel. This is my other sergeant?. "Er, Sergeant Stathos, take another section and man the northern area of our line. Whoever is left, you're with me in the centre."