The Ariadne Objective Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by Wes Davis

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published and unpublished material:

  The Estate of Patrick Leigh Fermor: Excerpts and sketch from a February 9, 1944, letter by Patrick Leigh Fermor to Annette Crean. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Patrick Leigh Fermor.

  The Estate of William Stanley Moss: Excerpts from “W. Stanley Moss, unpublished diary, Documents 13338 Private Papers of Major I W S Moss MC, Department of Documents, Imperial War Museum,” copyright © the Estate of William Stanley Moss. Excerpt from “W. Stanley Moss, Diary 1939,” copyright © the Estate of William Stanley Moss. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of William Stanley Moss.

  Hodder & Stoughton Limited: Excerpt from A Time of Gifts by Patrick Leigh Fermor, copyright © 1977 by Patrick Leigh Fermor. Reprinted by permission of Hodder & Stoughton Limited.

  Imogen Grundon: Excerpt from The Rash Adventurer: A Life of John Pendlebury by Imogen Grundon (Libri Publications, 2007). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Paul Dry Books, Inc., and the Estate of William Stanley Moss: Excerpts from Ill Met by Moonlight by W. Stanley Moss, copyright © 1950 by W. Stanley Moss. Reprinted by permission of Paul Dry Books, Inc., www.PaulDryBooks.com, and the Estate of William Stanley Moss.

  Paul Dry Books, Inc.: Hide and Seek by Xan Fielding (Secker & Warburg, 1954). Reprinted by permission of Paul Dry Books, Inc., www.PaulDryBooks.com.

  Robert Rendel: Excerpt from Appointment in Crete: The Story of a British Agent by A. M. Rendel (Allan Wingate, 1953). Reprinted by permission of Robert Rendel.

  Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-0-307-46013-4

  eISBN 978-0-307-46015-8

  Frontmatter map: David Lindroth, Inc.

  Jacket design: Eric White

  Jacket photograph: George Baier IV; photograph of men (clockwise from top left): Efstratios Saviolakis/Stratis, Emmanouil Paterakis/Manoli, Antonios Papaleonidas/Wallace Beery, Georgios Tyrakis/George, Nikolaos Komis/Nikko, William Stanley Moss, Patrick Leigh Fermor, Grigorios Chnarakis/Grigori

  v3.1

  FOR SLIM

  I dream’d that Greece might still be free.

  —LORD BYRON

  It seemed … and to me, then, rather shockingly … like a practical joke played on the Germans in fancy dress.

  —A. M. “SANDY” RENDEL

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map

  A Note on Names

  Prologue: Whimsical

  PART I: DEPOSITED ON THE LIMESTONE

  1. Shanks’s Mare

  2. Sword Stick

  3. Oak Apple Day

  4. The Fishpond

  5. Spaghetti and Ravioli

  PART II: IN THE MINOTAUR’S LAIR

  6. Fleshpots

  7. Tara

  Photo Insert

  8. Moonstruck

  9. The Intersection

  10. Bricklayer

  Epilogue: Ritterlich!

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Selected Bibliography

  About the Author

  To view a full-size version of this image, click HERE.

  A Note on Names

  IN THE NARRATIVE that follows I have referred to British officers most often by their surnames, usually dispensing with the formality of rank in order to maintain the sense of immediacy with which the story unfolds in the primary documents—mostly field reports—on which the book draws. For the same reason, the Greek partisans who bore the brunt of the risk in the dangerous work described here are referred to by their first names or nicknames, as they generally are in the field reports. Greek names can be transliterated from the Greek alphabet in a variety of ways, and I have relied largely on spellings that appear in field reports, in part for consistency with other historical accounts but also to capture the tone of the action as it unfolded. These spellings generally reflect the casual pronunciation used in the field: thus Manoli, for example, rather than the more proper Manolis, or still more formal Emmanouil. In a few cases, I have preferred code names where they are particularly descriptive or colorful, as in the case of Mihali “Micky” Akoumianakis, who is here called “Minoan Mike,” using the code name derived from his familial association with the Palace of Knossos. Greek resistance leaders who commanded their own organizations, the kapetans, are generally referred to by surname or code name—Bandouvas or Bo-Peep—or both. In actual practice in wartime Crete, names used in the field were fluid and flexible. Patrick Leigh Fermor was frequently called “Mihali,” the Hellenized version of his middle name, Michael. But in field reports he is just as often referred to as “Paddy.” Tom Dunbabin was either “Yanni” or “O Tom”; Harry Booke was “Mihali” or sometimes “Mihalaki,” to distinguish him from “Mihali” Leigh Fermor. Names also evolved over time, as is seen in the case of George Psychoundakis, whose code name shifted from “Changeling” to “Changebug.”

  The organization that became known as the Special Operations Executive also bore different names at various stages of the war. For the sake of consistency I have used SOE throughout.

  PROLOGUE

  Whimsical

  IT WAS JUST after five thirty in the evening when a four-engine Halifax bomber lumbered off the runway of the RAF aerodrome in Brindisi. Climbing through thickening cloud cover, it banked toward the southeast and roared away along the heel of Italy. The crew’s scheduled mission was routine. Or what passed for routine in a squadron dedicated to special operations. They were making a run down to a mountain range midway along the northwestern fringe of the Greek mainland, to drop supplies for British agents working with the Greek Resistance to undermine the now nearly three-year-old German occupation. This ongoing operation, code-named Tingewick, had been under way for months. But on this evening, February 4, 1944, an unfamiliar operation appeared alongside Tingewick on the Halifax pilot’s duty list. Its code name—a designation that would prove unusually fitting over the coming weeks—was Whimsical.

  According to the orders sent down to the 148th Squadron, Operation Whimsical consisted of four men who would be dropping into Crete by parachute. Two of them were British officers, the other two Greek partisans. The commander of the operation was a handsome, gap-toothed young major named Patrick Leigh Fermor. He was called “Paddy” by the other Englishman, a captain named William Stanley Moss, himself a tall, debonair figure who moved with an unhurried confidence. When the two officers loped aboard the Halifax that evening, they looked less like commandos embarking on a covert mission than like a pair of dashing young aristocrats on a Mediterranean lark. In contrast, the two Greeks traveling with them had the authentically fierce appearance—sun-narrowed eyes and bristling mustaches—of Cretan shepherds. Or sheep rustlers. In neither case would these first impressions have been exactly right. But they would not have been far off the mark either.

  The Whimsical party brought some five hundred pounds of equipment on board with them. Marlin guns, revolvers, and ammunition were packed away in cylindrical containers, along with more exotic supplies: from Benzedrine and knockout drops to lumps of plastic explosive fashioned to resemble goat droppings. Much of their gear was for all practical purposes invisible. The magnetized buttons of their trousers were designed to be used
as compasses. They had maps, printed on fine silk, which could be tucked into the linings of their jackets, the lapels of which also concealed caches of cyanide, to be bitten as a last resort if capture looked inevitable. In addition, each man carried a surprisingly large quantity of gold sovereigns. For all the unexpected riches there was nothing extravagant about their attire, however. Under their down-filled jumpsuits all four wore plain clothes that, ragged as they appeared, might have been stolen from a shepherd’s hut. Moss wore a black beret.

  Their destination was an upland plain ringed by the Lasithi mountains in eastern Crete. In theory the Katharo plateau, as it was called, would be an ideal drop point. Although the northeastern fringe of the plateau was only twenty miles or so from the sea, it stood at an elevation nearly four thousand feet above sea level. The steep ascent from the Bay of Mirabello in the northeast was made, when it could be made at all, on a primitive trail riddled with switchbacks and narrow passes. And reaching Katharo from the south coast was no easier. All in all it was inhospitable terrain for German patrols. Yet the same topography might actually aid the parachute drop itself. The name “Katharo,” which meant “clean” or “cleansed” in Greek, referred to the way the surrounding mountains served as a weather break, sheltering the plateau itself from the full force of winter storms. When the ring of mountain peaks was darkened by clouds, the plateau remained clear. That was the theory anyway.

  By seven o’clock the Halifax had reached the mountainous area of northwestern Greece where the first drop was to take place. The pilot, who bore the portentous name Cyril J. Fortune, circled the area pinpointed in his flight plan, scanning the rugged terrain below for landmarks. But there was little to be seen through the blanket of cloud. Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, Fortune corkscrewed the Halifax down to seven thousand feet and at last found a break in the cloud cover. He spotted two lights that might have been signal fires but saw no sign of a third fire that would have confirmed the location of the drop. The crew flashed a prearranged Morse code pattern—the letter of the day was K—as a signal to agents on the ground. But no reply was seen. At 7:19 Fortune put Tingewick on hold and set a course for the Whimsical area.

  Two hours later the plane was off the coast of Crete. The navigator, a sergeant named Cowell, pinpointed the target area, and Fortune brought the Halifax in for a reconnaissance run. But the Katharo name proved inappropriate for the plateau on this night. Clouds engulfed the mountains and plain alike. Fortune was forced to descend to 4,500 feet before he found any break at all. A brief glimpse of the ground revealed that they had come in north of the target. The crew fired a white Verey light as a clearer signal to the waiting ground force, and Fortune banked the Halifax to approach the drop zone on a westerly heading. At last he was able to verify that the appropriate signal had been lit. A single fire could be seen burning inside a triangle formed by three others. This was the right spot and all was in order on the ground. But the cloud base was a mere three hundred feet above ground level. Fortune explained to Major Leigh Fermor that “if he wished to drop, it would be necessary to make a low drop.”

  A parachute jump was hazardous business in the best of circumstances, but dropping from a lower altitude multiplied the risk considerably. Add to that the darkness and cloud cover, and it was anyone’s guess what the outcome might be. Leigh Fermor, though, was unruffled. He would go, he said, and once down he would signal by flashing four times if it was safe to drop the rest of the party.

  Fortune banked again and guided the Halifax in from the east at 4,700 feet above sea level, less than a thousand feet above the plateau itself. As it neared the drop zone, he brought the plane up another three hundred feet to give Leigh Fermor a slight margin of safety. Sergeant Rowland, the bomb aimer, spotted the target from inside the cloud bank while Leigh Fermor, perching on the edge of the jump hole, peered at the ground below. He had just caught sight of the triangle of signal fires when Rowland shouted, “Go!” An instant later he was somersaulting through the aircraft’s backwash.

  Moss watched as his friend disappeared through the drop door, knowing his turn would be next. “There was some terrible finality about seeing Paddy go through that hole,” he felt. “One moment he was with us—then gone, utterly and irretrievably gone.”

  The Halifax circled back for another run, again approaching from the east. By now the clouds were closing in even more thickly, and it proved impossible to spot either the signal fire or Leigh Fermor’s go-ahead signal. And there was no opening to get down for a better view. As the aircraft continued to circle, it slowly dawned on Moss that he and his two Greek friends would be unable to join Leigh Fermor. At 9:46 Fortune announced that they would have to abandon the Whimsical mission.

  He would, however, give Tingewick one more try. Another two hours of flying time took the Halifax back to the mainland. But conditions there proved no better than in Crete. The drop area was blanketed by unbroken cloud cover. Fortune was unable to get below eight thousand feet, and it took him no longer than a minute to recognize that it was fruitless to continue circling. By 11:42 they were winging their way back to Brindisi.

  As the weather continued to deteriorate, Fortune began to have difficulty controlling the aircraft. The wings were icing over. The trouble began at thirteen thousand feet, but the icing dogged the plane all the way down to four thousand feet. At that altitude Fortune was able to regain control of the Halifax. About the same time, however, a break in the cloud revealed that the aircraft had dropped below the level of the surrounding mountains. As the rugged terrain of the mountainside rushed into view, the situation looked perilous, but Fortune, apparently unruffled, eased the plane into an impossibly steep climb and slipped over the looming ridgeline with a hairbreadth of altitude to spare. As the sortie report he filed later calmly phrased it, “Captain found he was below level of the mountains and had to make a rapid ascent to avoid disaster.”

  The Whimsical flight touched down safely in Brindisi at 1:15 in the morning. But the foul weather had trailed it back. For the next three nights all missions scheduled to fly out of Brindisi were grounded.

  ON FEBRUARY 9, Leigh Fermor, at least, believed he would soon be reunited with his comrades. Holed up in a cave east of the Katharo plateau, he took the time to compose a letter to a lady friend he had met in Cairo. A hand-sketched map of Crete at the top of the page marked his “window” with a cross, as if he were sending a postcard from a resort hotel. “Well,” he wrote, “here we are in the old home, at least I am at this moment as the second I left the …”—here, in a nod to wartime circumspection, he crossed out a word and inserted “car”—“the second I left the car a horrid cloud appeared that stopped Billy and Manoli and George from jumping. We are expecting better tonight. Then up and AWAY!”

  The storm that closed in after his jump had left its mark on the countryside. “It’s very cold and snowy,” he told his friend, “and rather beautiful. Wish you were here.” His enthusiasm for Crete was undiminished by either the chill or the risk he was taking in venturing behind enemy lines. “It’s great fun being back, and, of course, life is just one big whisker as usual.”

  A runner was waiting to carry away the letter, so he had to close. But he took the time to sketch a cartoon scene that was sure to amuse his friend. It showed a Prussian-helmeted German officer crawling from a cave in an attempt to reach the sea. A swastika flag flapped nearby. Two slender figures were bearing down on the German from the other side of the island. One, armed with a machine gun, called out, “Don’t you dare move,” while the second, wearing a tunic and dark forage cap, brandished what looked like a wooden sword and exclaimed, “Rather not.” The wide-eyed German, knowing he was about to be captured, cried out, “Himmel!”—Heavens!—“I am undone.” The caption read: “Life on the Island.”

  It was fortunate that the Germans failed to intercept the letter. The fanciful plan that had brought Leigh Fermor to Crete was all there in the cartoon. The two swashbuckling British officers closing in
on a hapless German general—it was like a thumbnail sketch of the improbable mission Leigh Fermor intended to carry out as soon as his friends could join him.

  PART I

  DEPOSITED ON THE LIMESTONE

  1

  Shanks’s Mare

  ON THE AFTERNOON of December 9, 1933, a London taxi traveling from Shepherd Market lurched to a stop on the north end of Tower Bridge. Three young men and a girl in high heels got out. Rain was beating down. “Nice weather for young ducks,” the driver remarked. The four passengers hunched against the downpour as they ran toward a flight of steps leading down to Irongate Wharf on the Thames below. One of them wore an army greatcoat and carried a faded rucksack and a walking stick made of ash. Once they had reached the wharf, the party huddled by a gangway leading to the Dutch steamer Stadthouder Willem and said a hasty round of good-byes. Then the boy with the rucksack dashed aboard.

  When he looked back, he saw his friends disappear into the stairway, then reemerge for a moment on the bridge above. He waved to them and noticed that the girl had pulled the mackintosh she was wearing over her head to protect her hair from the rain. A tremor of loneliness shivered through him, then faded away.

  Patrick Leigh Fermor was eighteen years old. He was sailing for Rotterdam, on his own. When he reached the city’s port, known as the Hook of Holland, he planned to make his way across the whole of Europe to Istanbul, in his mind still Constantinople, the capital of Rome’s empire in the East. The idea had seemed simple when it burst into his head on a similarly sodden evening a few weeks earlier. “I would travel on foot,” he had decided, “sleep in hayricks in the summer, shelter in barns when it was raining or snowing and only consort with peasants and tramps.” Looking back later, he gave the plan a lighthearted name: “Europe by Shanks’s Mare.” The old Scottish expression for walking—“riding Shanks’s mare”—lent a hint of romance to the hard work of trekking across the continent.