Trouble Ahead

by Rob Lofthouse

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; War & Military; Thrillers; Military Thrillers

Synopsis

Heraklion, May 1941. On the north coast of Crete, the British forces are redeploying troops, ahead of a German invasion of the island. A brutal defeat in Greece has forced them to withdraw from the mainland, weakened and dejected. For Captain Bentley Paine, of the Yorks & Lancs Regiment, the planned assault is a chance to finally prove himself in this war, not least to his infuriating assistant, Corporal Hallmark. But when the attack begins at dawn, no one can be prepared for the death and bloody fighting that will ensue. As German paratroopers fire at will, victory is decided in a matter of days. But both sides will face devastating losses, in a game-changing campaign, that will become one of the most intense and horrific battles of the Second World War.

Release date: July 27, 2017

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 320

Sample

From a large tent surrounded by a few buildings, the soft inviting glow of dawn creeping over the Greek horizon was a welcome sight for Bentley Paine. It marked the penultimate hour of his watch-keeper shift at Regimental Headquarters. As the sun crept up, he rubbed his tired grainy eyes and continued to sip at the foul sweet tea which he had been nursing for a while.

Life for an infantry officer seconded to a cavalry regiment like the 4th Hussars was certainly testing Paine’s sense of humour. Drafted in as a liaison officer, he had the unenviable job of keeping a degree of harmony between two constituents of a rather ad hoc battle group: the 4th Queen’s Own Hussars, a senior British regiment, whose officers boasted that their forefathers had sat on their chargers next to Wellington himself, and a rough and ready New Zealand infantry battalion. Meetings between the two respective command groups were heated to say the least, since the Kiwi officers were from broad-backed farming stock and unaccustomed to being told what to do by what they claimed were jumped-up, overpriced, silver-spoon-sucking halfwits. They gave Paine no quarter either, concluding rather quickly that he was cut from the same cloth, infantry or not. Bentley didn’t have much time for the Kiwis but had to choose his words carefully when in their company, not to mention with the cavalry, who had no time for their infantry bretheren. Not accustomed to street fighting, Bentley had already had to prove his worth by physically stepping in, keeping the New Zealand officers out of arm’s reach of their opposite numbers. The young officer would now and then end up with a shiner for his efforts at mediating.

The colonel in command of the battle group was continually phoning Brigade Headquarters, demanding that the troublesome Kiwis be replaced by more reserved, measured men. His demands fell on deaf ears. Unsurprisingly, the command group of the 4th Hussars had been nominated to lead the battle group, and so the Kiwis just had to suck it up and get on with it. In order for there to be some kind of civilized communication between the two, the powers that be had felt it wise to ship in Paine: British enough to understand the intentions and sensitivities of the gentry, yet rough enough to empathize with the New Zealanders.

There was a silver lining to his appointment: to add to his clout while seconded to the cavalry, his own regiment had seen fit to promote him to captain for the duration. This was wonderful news for both Paine and his family. The extra pay made a big difference, even though he was ultimately destined to inherit the Richmond Furlong Company of Richmond, North Yorkshire, an equestrian retail empire that his great-grandfather had carved out of nothing long ago. So once Paine’s brief stint in the army was over, everything would eventually be all right, regardless of who won. The Paine family business was convinced that even the German equestrian community needed a company to service its needs, so the war wouldn’t ruin their business model. Indeed, in the back of Paine’s mind the war was the last thing the family needed to worry about. But his promotion had also unnerved him a little, since he had yet to even serve as a lieutenant commanding a platoon. It was only when he graduated from the military college at Sandhurst that it came to light that no suitable infantry platoon vacancy could be identified, hence the swift secondment to Greece. It just showed Paine that the British Army could indeed think on its feet and find jobs for anyone.

Paine’s personal position with 4th Hussars wasn’t without issues. The Regimental Headquarters staff made it clear that infanteers were very much outsiders, British or not – ironic, given his family’s equestrian business. The adjutant made no apologies for putting Paine on the graveyard shift as watch-keeper, while he and his chums would stroll off into Corinth to sample what was on offer. Corinth was a coastal town, almost eighty kilometres west of the Greek capital Athens. Paine had to settle for the company of corporals and a few troopers who knew how to operate the radios and run the light tanks when their batteries required recharging. He was looking forward to the end of his attachment.

Paine’s own unit, the 2nd Battalion of the Yorkshire and Lancashire Regiment, otherwise known as 2 Yorks and Lancs, was stationed on Crete, which did not look too dissimilar to the terrain that flanked the high banks of the Corinth Canal: arid and dusty, with sparse vegetation that varied from green olive groves to harsh clusters of dried grass with spiteful, thorny, lifeless bushes. Regimental Headquarters was situated in among a group of off-white dwellings with flat, roughly tiled roofs. The light tanks were dispersed among the buildings and draped in tatty hessian netting, which served two purposes: it offered shade from the crushing Greek heat and hid the tanks from German aircraft. The main buildings served as billets for the headquarters staff including the commanding officer, whose large, olive drab canvas tent was established in the centre, complete with its own camouflage netting to hide it from the air.

Paine looked around the tent. The radio operators had handsets attached to telephone lines running from the tanks’ junction boxes. This allowed the radios to be powered from the vehicles, giving them greater range, which was useful, since Paine and the headquarters staff had to communicate with all the units from the Hussars and the New Zealand battalion; units which included an anti-aircraft location of four 20-millimetre Bofors flak guns and tank squadrons dispersed to the south. The tent was also furnished with folding canvas chairs and a couple of six-foot wooden tables, along with maps neatly pinned to wooden crate lids marking where the battle group were dug in.

Paine’s routine of running headquarters in the silent hours was interrupted by a gluttonous belch behind him. In his peripheral vision Paine could identify the arrival of his batman, Corporal John Hallmark. Hallmark stood, one hand down the front of his trousers, adjusting himself, his other hand running through his dark, dry and stiff hair. ‘You won’t find this view in Blackpool, that’s for sure,’ he remarked. Paine was not in the mood for conversation with the oaf. Hallmark had given him enough grief, ever since being assigned to him by the adjutant of their battalion back in Egypt. Hallmark, dragged up from the rougher side of the Pennines, specifically Preston in Lancashire, was not to officers’ liking at all. Rude, abrasive, it was amazing to think that the man had even received one chevron, let alone three to make him sergeant, prior to his demotion to corporal before sailing to Greece.

Hallmark took a few paces forward to ruin what was left of Paine’s morning view, not to mention his mood. The corporal, who was six foot if not an inch more, went out through the open canvas door for his morning piss in the dirt without a care in the world. Paine had passed the point of being bashful; Hallmark went out of his way to try and shock him and whoever else was about. Unshaven, with boots undone, and his trousers and braces hanging over his backside, Hallmark sported an off-white vest that had not been laundered in a while. His arms and shoulders, coated in thick dark hair, were large, powerful, bronzed by the Greek sun. Indecent tattoos covered the majority of his bare skin. He was as strong as an ox and had the sprint power of a prop forward. A good few men back in their parent battalion feared him, and rightly so. Quick to resort to his fists, even quicker when full of ale, the former sergeant gave no quarter to those who he felt to be inferior, officers included, a failing which had facilitated his demotion, and which in turn had led him to his current assignment.

Paine could not bring himself to finish his umpteenth cup of tea of the night and walked outside, tipping its contents onto the dusty ground. He re-entered the gloom of the olive drab tent quickly, anything to put distance between himself and Hallmark. The light breeze coming through brought its fair share of dust, but it was a welcome relief for the lads who were manning the radios. Their job was not all that challenging; most were reading books. The main task for them was just to stay awake. The night had passed without incident. The troops had nothing to report when the operators called them, and that suited Paine just fine, given the chaotic withdrawals of recent days. The Germans were pushing hard into Greece, but British and Commonwealth forces were making it tough going for them. Greece was a harsh mistress to both invader and defender. Both sides were struggling for a decisive advantage, while their political and military masters made increasingly unrealistic demands. It just so happened that the panzers needed fuel more than they needed ammunition, which had given the battle group the chance to withdraw and regroup, and get their affairs and troops in order. And since they had dug in around the canal to the north and its bridge, the Corinth area had been rather settled.

As Paine took note of which officers required early calls, a handset perched on the shoulder of one of the operators crackled into life. The sudden flurry of information caused the operator to flinch and grab for the handset as it slipped towards the floor. Placing his book on the table, he calmly returned the call. ‘Hotel Zero Alpha say again. Over.’

Paine moved close to the radio man. The call was from the Kiwis: something was going on. ‘Alpha Zero Bravo,’ spouted from the headset, ‘we have aircraft engines getting louder from the north-east – no, wait . . . We can now see aircraft, twenty plus escorts, over.’ As the call cut out, Paine looked at a map pinned to a board. Aircraft from the north-east didn’t appear too out of the ordinary. The next incoming call was frantic however. ‘Stukas, wait. Out.’ Bentley looked up at the roof of the tent. He was suddenly very aware that the flimsy canvas tent would do little to protect them from anything the Germans could throw.

Those who, like Hallmark, were getting up, suddenly moved with a purpose, rushing out to wake their commanders. There would be no lie-in this morning. Paine strode out of the tent and went to where he could see the north side of the canal. He could see the German dive-bombers beginning to work on the forward company, the concussion of their bombs rippling through the area. A commotion behind him caught his attention. Officers in various states of undress were coming out of the buildings and making their way into the tent.

It was chaos. Paine’s cavalry colleagues demanded to know what was happening to their companies and squadrons, while the radio operators were fighting the din in the tent, trying to get in touch with the units in the field.

Paine could hear a rumbling noise. As it got louder, so did the voices in the tent. He noticed Hallmark standing just inside the tent flap. Hallmark’s hand was slowly rising, as if to ask a question. ‘Shut up, all of you!’ he bellowed. The corporal was never one for etiquette.

Not used to being shouted at, certainly not by a lowly corporal, the headquarters staff turned, some on the verge of protesting to Paine about his batman’s outburst. Paine held up a finger for them to keep mute, for he could also hear the noise building above. ‘Listen.’

Everyone stood stock still. The wailing drone got louder; it then became a high-pitched scream. The commanding officer suddenly dashed inside the tent. ‘Take cover,’ he roared. All of the radio operators and commanders hit the floor, some diving under the tables.

The sudden crash of bombs thundered all around, along with the bass drum concussions of cannon as Stukas strafed the area. Their screaming engines faded instantly as they pulled out of their dive.

As the cacophony subsided, cannon fire could be heard in the distance, with more bomb blasts. As the commanders and operators began to clamber to their feet, it quickly dawned on Paine that he had remained standing throughout the attack, as had Hallmark, who was pulling men up, helping to dust them down. Standing hadn’t been stubbornness on Paine’s part; it had all been over before he had a chance to pick his own piece of suitable cover. Not that anything in the tent qualified as suitable.

Radio operators went back to being harassed by their officers for status updates on the state of play among the companies and squadrons. Then the growing drone of aircraft dominated the air again. ‘Paine,’ blurted the commanding officer, ‘make yourself bloody useful, and find out what on earth is going on with our flak guns.’

Paine looked down at the Webley revolver attached to his hip by a dusty canvas holster; it was all that most of the officers in the Regimental Headquarters were issued. He eyed the Lee-Enfield rifles sat in a rack next to a table and decided to help himself. Hallmark read his mind, getting there before Paine, grabbing two rifles. Paine pestered one of the radio operators for his clips of ammunition and then headed outside. Far less diplomatic, Hallmark was already plundering his way through the webbing of the other operators. Some stared in challenge at him, but he returned a menacing glare, as if to invite them to take a swing. ‘You can go out there and fight, or let me do it. What’s it gonna be, girls?’ The operators backed off, returning their attention to the headsets.

Paine’s plan to commandeer the colonel’s staff car was short-lived. It had been punctured by a number of high-explosive cannon rounds and was burned out. The first flak position was a good fifteen hundred metres in the direction of the canal bridge, and to run there was really going to burn on the lungs. Before setting off, Hallmark spotted a few Kiwis who just so happened to be moving around the headquarters in fighting gear. ‘You men, follow me. We have to get to the nearby flak position.’

The New Zealanders looked at him as if he had just demanded blood. He was about to reinforce his order when they looked beyond him, pointing north. Both Hallmark and Paine turned to see what had captured their attention.

In the sky above what would have been the forward Kiwi company position was a vast formation of German Junkers 88 transport aircraft. Before Paine could register what was taking place before him, flickering pink, green and white parachutes began to fill the air between the Junkers and the ground. The Fallschirmjäger, Germany’s elite paratroopers, were attacking. Suddenly, it didn’t take much effort for Hallmark to recruit the Kiwi infanteers to his cause; they were very enthusiastic about taking care of the new airborne threat.

Paine concluded that to make a direct dash to the flak guns would be suicide, for the Stukas were still marauding about. He chose a covered route through the olive groves. The best pace Paine and his small force could manage in such close country was a shuffle, with the Kiwi section puffing and panting not far behind him. The sweat running down his temples reminded him that he was without a helmet and probably not dressed as the cavalry would have liked, but given the circumstances that was the least of his worries.

When they finally broke cover out of the groves, the situation at the flak gun emplacement was dire. One gun was burning, a second abandoned, but the other two were giving it all they were worth at the aircraft and parachutes descending north of the canal. Some of the Junkers had dark oily smoke tailing behind them as the gunners found their mark. One of the aircraft burst into flames and then plummeted down out of sight behind a large rocky outcrop. Seconds later, a huge black mushroom cloud billowed skywards. Transfixed, Paine could do nothing but admire the skill of the flak gun crews. As their guns thundered away, he observed their tracer knocking pieces of fuselage from aircraft, occasionally adjusting lower to perforate the Fallschirmjäger as they drifted down under their canopies.

A tap on the shoulder from a Kiwi non-commissioned officer snapped Paine out of his trance, and he began to lead the group over to the battling gun teams.

With the din of battle overwhelming their senses, Paine and his small force were oblivious to the Junkers formation arriving over Regimental Headquarters behind them.

Despite the refreshing draught coming through the side door of the Junkers 88, Captain Martin Bassom and his men sweated like beasts. Volumes of equipment were strapped to each man, as well as their personal parachutes, and it had all combined not only to make boarding very cumbersome, but also to make the journey hot and uncomfortable. Only the jump master, who knelt close to the door, had any real freedom of movement. Between the jump master and Bassom were two supply containers, each with its own parachute attached to one end. Bassom despised the containers; they took up too much room, and there was always the hassle of having to recover them on the ground.

Earlier airborne successes had highlighted the need for the men to have their weapons attached to them, so they were fit to fight even before they were out of their parachute harnesses. But even after the victorious missions carried out the year before in the Low Countries, and the reports made by the officers who conducted them, the powers that be still insisted that containers carrying extra weapon bundles be deployed. Officers, including Major Taugen, Bassom’s company commander, had managed to lobby the case hard enough for MP 40 sub-machine guns to be issued and attached to those who wished to jump with them. Taugen had conceded that the containers could deliver machine guns, ammunition and other specialist equipment to the battlefield, but argued that if MP 40s were carried on the person rather than in the containers, companies including his own would at least have the means to fight their way to the containers; knives, Luger pistols and grenades were not enough. The negotiated improvement in what weapons could be carried during a jump was still far from ideal, but Bassom knew that you could only demand so much, before being told to remember your place in the command chain.

Bassom adjusted his MP 40 under his chest harness as the jump master nodded in response to a message in his headset. The jump master rose to his feet, bellowing orders at the hot, sweaty paratroopers, but the wind hurtling past and the engine noise rendered him almost mute. However, they were all practised enough to know it was time to jump. ‘Action stations,’ came the call from the jump master.

With that, a dozen overladen men grunted and cursed as they fought to get to their feet. Bassom had the honour of helping the jump master invert the heavy containers, so they could be shoved out of the door when the order came. Everyone clipped their static lines to the cable that ran the length of the fuselage roof. When they dived from the Junkers, the static line would deploy their chutes for them. Once clipped on, they inspected the chute of the man in front of them, ensuring there was nothing untoward about its fitting and packing. When content, each slapped the shoulder of the man in front, confirming he was ready to dive into battle. At the front, Bassom was inspected by the jump master, the slap on the shoulder coming a few seconds later. Everyone was ready. Bassom acknowledged a thumbs-up from Sergeant Werner, who would be the last man to jump, and was Bassom’s right-hand man for the time being. Bassom’s wave was casual; nothing to indicate he considered Werner a Nazi upstart, nothing to indicate he was appearing friendlier than he actually felt.

Through the door Bassom could see the other half of his company under canopy as they drifted towards the ground, north of the canal. Some of the aircraft were spilling dark smoke from their engines, random licks of flame indicating some planes had more pressing issues than others. Soot-like shell bursts amid his drifting comrades informed him they would be landing under fire. The two containers prevented him from getting a view of what awaited them on the south side of the canal. But he would soon find out what was there.

The jump master tipped the first container out of the door, the slipstream ripping it rearwards. The second went out the door with the same ferocity. Then he took Bassom by the shoulder and manhandled him into the open aperture. Hands gripping the rails on either side, Bassom fought the slipstream that tried its hardest to pull him out. It would only be for a few seconds, but to the young captain it felt like a lifetime. Then came the slap on the shoulder, to which he responded as he had been trained. He pushed as hard as he could with his legs to clear the aircraft door, diving down like the eagle printed on the side of his helmet.

As Bassom’s canopy filled with air, the harness straps that went between his legs snapped up into his groin, causing him to grunt out loud as his gut began to burn. The din of slipstream and engine faded as he composed himself while drifting down. His company were all around him under mottled green silk. Down to his left, the two containers hit the ground in bursts of dust and arid brush, their pink and white canopies enveloping them; pink indicating medical supplies, white indicating means to wage war. He was heading towards what appeared to be a cluster of drab white flat-roofed dwellings with people running about, pointing up at him. Between the buildings was flapping material, which failed miserably to hide British armour; one of the light tanks appeared to be burning, a plume of smoke drifting lazily skywards. To his right on the ground, near a canal bank, was a smouldering dusty position, its flak guns pounding a steady drumbeat, the gun crews seemingly unaware of his men’s impending arrival. He spotted a few men running from the sparse, sorry-looking olive groves towards the guns, but then his attention became consumed by the ground rushing up to greet him.

Cursing and grunting from his landing, which hurt, as they all did, Bassom fought like a man possessed to free himself from his harness. Once clear, he cocked his MP 40, ready for action, and began to move. His radio operator, Corporal Stolz, was swearing his head off as he fought to get free of his rigging lines, but was getting nowhere. Bassom knelt, cutting Stolz’s lines as he spoke. ‘We need those containers. I know where they are. Follow me.’

Stolz quickly knelt up, ready to fight with his MP 40. ‘Yes, sir.’ Other paratroopers began appearing all around as Bassom headed off down a slope towards white fabric caught in some bushes. The movement of all the p. . .