A Haven in Crete
By BERNARD FERGUSSON
THERE is no lovelier island than Crete. From the snowy tops of Mount Ida through the vineyards to the mouths of the turbulent rivers that topple into the sea, " rich and many- citied," it is all that the poets have claimed for it. But when I went there, three years ago, it was as a pilgrim, not as a poet. I went to see where my regiment had fought.
I was not with my regiment during those wild ten days when it fought the Germans who descended from the air ; 1 was in an inglorious niche on the staff. While the German invasion was being mounted, I was crossing the Taurus mountains in plain clothes on my way between Smyrna and Cairo ; when the first parachutes opened over Heraklion, I was walking to my office in Cairo through the streets of the Kasr-el-Doubara It was not until six-and-a-half years later that I came to Heraklion, being dumped upon the airfield from a Greek Anson, without an acquaintance in all the island, and having to start my pilgrimage from scratch.
I found lodgings in the town with an Armenian doctor and his daughter, and made my number with Elliadi, a brave and elderly Smyrniote who acted as the British Vice-Consul, and who had spent several years in a German prison for that very reason. Thanks to him I was plunged into an orgy of Cretan hospitality. In my green coat of regimental tweed and my ill-pressed flannel trousers I was marched in procession to the cathedral, giving thanks to God for the glories of " No " Day—the anniversary of the Greek refusal to allow Mussolini's troops' free passage through Greece—cheered by the populace, entertained by the prefect. I found myself also a guest at the wedding of the son of the leading Cretan resistance chief, a tough character with a rifle and a bandolier slung across his shoulders, who had just solved the local Communist problem in a manner which was at once obvious, drastic and effective. A bearded archbishop aged thirty-two, also formerly of the resistance, invited me to his monastery, three days' mule-ride away. A mer- chant took me to a grape-auction in Arkhanos. Altogether I was well received ; despite the fact that six-and-a-half years earlier my regiment had left the island at dead of night leaving the Cretans to the violence of German revenge.
The grape-merchant took me in hand. I knew no Greek ; the Armenian doctor and his daughter spoke only French ; Elliadi and the grape-merchant had good English ; and a café-keeper down near the old Venetian harbour had been twelve years in Alexandria. With the café-keeper I drank coffee and arrack daily, and ate dried star-fish, Conversing in Arabic ; he refused me a bill at the end. During my week's stay I walked out each day to the scene of the battle carrying with me a copy of the War Diary, eye-witness accounts, photographs, tracings and similar matter, and planned the relevant chapter in the book which I was writing.
It was on my last day that I had my adventure, if the word is not too strong for such a ,small affair. I was anxious to locate and visit a farmhouse which had served as the officers' mess of one of the companies of my battalion. It was associated with several friends of my youth, one of whom had been killed on the island and the others since. Having caroused with them much myself, I had little difficulty in imagining them carousing with each other, during those anxious days before the invasion, when leisure was scarce, wine cheap and friendship precious. The grape-merchant, among his many other interests, had had the building of the air- field which my regiment had defended ; he had offered me his company and his car, as well as the use of his English-speaking tongue ; and I set out with him, one sparkling morning about ten o'clock, to seek this farmhouse.
We drove for a couple of miles along the coast-road, which had been the scene of so much fighting by my friends. I knew it well by now. Behind us was the town of Heraklion, beyond it Mount Ida ; to the south was the high hill which the Cretans identify with the sleeping figure of Jupiter : to the north the sea was washing against the cliffs. We turned up a rough track to the right, while I fingered my diaries and documents upon my knee ; and within fifty yards of where I expected to find it we came upon the house wh I sought. The lower half was gray with age ; the upper half white, disclosing the fact that it had been rebuilt since the bank
The farmer came out And spoke with us: I guess his age to hav been seventy. He remembered the officers who wore tufts of r feathers in their bonnets ; he remembered how his wife had fried their eggs for them ; he remembered how they were wont to give him a strong, yellow, bitter drink of an evening (I was hard pin to it to recognise this as whisky) ; the oldest of the officers had had medal ribbons (that must have been Gerald) ; all of them, he said, had been " smiling men." This talk was in Greek ; my friend th grape-merchant translated as he went along ; and I remembered more vividly, from this second-hand description, than for man years the fancies and faces of my dead friends.
The grape-merchant and I climbed back into his car—a big r Plymouth, symbol of his post-war prosperity. It was not until then that the farmer came forward to tell the best of his story. T car's'engine was running, and the grape-merchant heard the begi ning of the tale with his hand all ready upon the gear-lever, read to go. Then his smile faded ; he said to me: " This is interesting," and he switched the engine off to listen and interpret. The farm told his story eagerly, and acted his part in it the while. It seen that one of our Jocks had been killed in the battle, a mere twenty yards from the house. During the following night he had been buried where he lay, under a heap of stones ; and as the farm told us this he pointed to the patch of ground, still discolour where the heap of stones had been. The merchant raised his hand to check the flow of narrative and told me the story so far.
The tale went on. For five years nothing 'had happened ; b early in the sixth had come the representatives of the Imperial War Graves Commission. The bodies of all who had been killed in the battle were being exhumed and carried to the cemetery at Suda Bay. The Jock, like others, had been dug up from under his bing of stones, carried away in a 15-cwt. truck, and re-buried at Suda; and then had begun the trouble.
Some months ago, said the farmer, he had had occasion to step out of the house one evening at dusk. He had walked two or three paces when he noticed that a man was standing by the heap of stones. He stopped : but the man came towards him, saying in badly pronounced Greek, " It's me ; it's me." The farmer toot fright and ran back into his house. Arr hour later he ventured out ,gain, looked towards the heap of stones, and saw to his relief that there was nobody there. He was about to go forward when he happened to look to his left ; and there, sitting on the stack of brushwood by the door, was a Jock with his head in his hands. The farmer darted back into the house and slammed the door as the man was rising up.
A stack of brushwood was by the door as the man told his story; and he illustrated it by sitting on the wood and rising to his feel in the fashion which he was describing He was much moved and sweated as he told the tale. The grape-merchant translated to me, and I wondered what to say.
I asked him at last what he made of it ; and he told me, through the interpreter, that he thought the soldier must have preferred his original grave, in the spot, where he had met his death, to the crowded graveyard of Suda Bay. I asked him if he was afraid, and he replied: Yes, he didn't like ghosts. I reminded him that the Jock had been killed while-fighting for Crete, and that he should look upon him as a friend ; that if he appeared again he should speak to him rather than cower behind a slammed door. After reflection he said that this seemed sensible, and that he would try to muster up enough courage to do so. The grape-merchant pressed the self-starter once again, and the, big 'red Plymouth went off down the hill. I looked over my shoulder, and saw the farmer looking thoughtfully at the pile of brushwood beside his door.
I am still in touch with the grape-merchant, for we send each other cards at Christmas. I have heard no more about the farmer or the Jock. I have discovered the name of the Jock who was buried beneath the heap of ;tones. And I told the story that evening at 1 Greek dinner-party in Heraklion, and found that nobody thought it odd except myself.
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