At Sea, Heraklion Bound, Then Back into the Mix

HMS Garland - G Class Destroyer
Imperial War Museum

The passageways below decks were crammed with survivors from the disastrous Greek campaign. The weather decks were no better, Fitzhugh and his crewmates had found a spot just forward of the forward gun mount. It was packed with troops, hardly room to move. Fitzhugh wondered if the sailors would be able to fight the ship if it came to that.

Fortunately they were in an area of low clouds with rain blowing in off and on. It was miserable on deck but it beat being herded into a German prisoner-of-war camp, Fitzhugh thought.

Sgt. O'Connell nudged Fitzhugh, "Fitzie, did you lads manage to cadge any rations from the pier?"

"Just a few tins of stale biscuits, Sarge. Better'n nothing, how are we fixed for water?"

"Just what's in my canteen, lucky for us I managed to fill it before we boarded. The swabbie I talked to said it's about a ten hour trip to Crete. Provided we don't run into any trouble."

As he said that, both men heard the drone of aircraft overhead. Neither man believed it was the RAF, the engines sounded like those they'd heard before, Ju 87 Stukas.

Hauptmann Hans Reiländer led his Kette of Ju 87s on a southerly heading, the rest of his Staffel trailed behind. He'd been briefed to search for Allied vessels steaming towards Crete. Though he had no certain knowledge of future operations, the buildup of transport aircraft and the steady arrival of German Fallschirmjäger convinced him that Crete was the next target. Malta was a possibility but he presumed that any assault on that island would stage out of southern Sicily.

"Horrido!¹Black Lead, Black Three, I see a wake at my two o'clock!"

Reiländer looked to his right, sure enough, he saw it too. Over the radio he called, "Stormbird group, Stormbird Lead, follow us in. Targets at two o'clock low."

The men on the overloaded transport looked up in horror as they heard the scream of German dive bombers tipping over and headed their way. The transport was unarmed, fortunately it was escorted by two Royal Navy destroyers, whose guns opened up on the diving gull-winged predators.

The bombs of the first aircraft splashed just off the transport's starboard bow, it flew off trailing smoke. Before the men on the ships could celebrate, the next aircraft's bombs dropped squarely on the fo'c'sle of the transport. Dozens of men were killed or wounded in the explosions which followed.

The third aircraft in the first attacking section dropped its bombs squarely on the stern. After the bombs detonated, the ship slowly came to a stop, smoke billowing from its stacks as the fire in the boiler room quickly consumed the engine spaces.

The captain of the lead destroyer watched in horror as the other destroyer in the small group was overwhelmed by the third attacking Stuka section. It broke in half and was quickly swallowed up by the sea.

As he turned to order his ship in to pick up survivors, he watched as the transport began to settle by the bow. Looking up he saw that he was doomed, another Stuka group was coming in.

"I wonder what all that commotion is out there?" Fred McTavish had been sleeping. As he stirred so did O'Shea and Walsh.

Their ship was passing through yet another squall, they could hear explosions and anti-aircraft fire not too far away. Though conditions at sea were nothing like they were used to, O'Connell had postulated that the sounds were within a mile of them.

Steaming into the sunlight once more, they beheld a scene of sheer horror. Upon the water were struggling men trying to stay afloat, mostly evacuees from Greece. A single ship was still above water, its stern missing, the remainder gradually settling as the sea overwhelmed the sailors' efforts to keep her afloat.

"Dear God ..." Walsh murmured.

"God's not here today laddie, this is the devil's work." McTavish said.

After a brutal twelve hours at sea, the destroyer that O'Connell and his crew were embarked upon pulled into Heraklion. The Redcaps² marshaled the men coming ashore into groups which were then marched off into the interior under officers and sergeants regardless of regiment, or even nationality.

O'Connell, McTavish, Fitzhugh, O'Shea, and Walsh found themselves in a group led by a very young British lieutenant. Fortunately they also had a senior Australian warrant officer with them who knew his business.

"Right mates, git yourselves in order, we'll be marching across to the southern side o' the island. The Huns control the skies on this side, the next bus to Egypt leaves to the south. So let's get marching. Give the order leftenant."

"Certainly, alright lads ..."

"Just give the order. Sir. Leave the speeches for when you're safe in the land of the Pharaohs."

"I say ..."

"Today Leftenant."

"Right lads, by the left, quick march!"

After a march of three hours, O'Connell noticed that they were not headed south, but west. He wondered what was going on but knew better than to ask.

Two hours after that a rest halt was called. While there, the men were ordered to fall in and draw weapons. Puzzled, the men did as they were told, there were weapons in crates stacked by the side of the road, but not much in the way of ammunition.

"Sir, what's up, where are we headed?"

The big Australian turned around and looked hard at O'Connell for a moment. Then he answered, "A major cock-up Sergeant, seems the bloody Huns are landing paratroopers all over the fecking island. We're ordered west, to Maleme. You lot are tankers right?"

"That's right Sir. A10s and A11s."

"We've got an anti-tank gun, think you lads can handle it?"

McTavish spoke up, "A cannon is a cannon, if it kills tanks, we can operate it. Are the Jerries dropping tanks then?"

Giving McTavish a dirty look, O'Connell said, "We'll do it, transport?"

"An old Greek lorry is the best we can do, it runs but it sounds like it'll die at any minute."

O'Connell looked at Fitzhugh, who said, "If it runs we can get to where you want us, one way or the other. Let's see the beast."

O'Connell felt like he and his crew were back in the war, an AT gun wasn't a tank, but it was better than carrying an old rusty rifle. Bring them on, O'Connell grumbled, we'll meet 'em in battle and see who wins this time.

"Right then, let's get stuck in lads."

¹ The German equivalent of "Tally ho!" Based on an old huntsman's call.

² British military police, so called because of the red covers worn atop their caps.