Eleni took another sip of coffee and closed her eyes for a moment. Silence returned to the room and Anna sat still, waiting for her to continue. At length Eleni coughed lightly and looked up.
‘So we were at war. The very thing I had come to fear most. You know Lefkas. You know that it faces the coast of Italy across the Adriatic Sea. There was nothing between our island and the fascists and we were afraid. Not so afraid that we were prepared to let them take our country without a fight. It was just the fear that comes when facing great uncertainty. And, at that time, I wondered if I would ever see Andreas alive again . . .’
Chapter Nine
Sivota, Lefkas, December 1940
T
he Royal Hellenic Navy submarine,
Papanikolis
, lay alongside the wooden pontoon that extended from the quay. Camouflage netting had been rigged over the vessel, the pontoon and the short stretch of open water between them and the shore in order to give some semblance of consistency to the shape of the bay to any enemy aircraft flying over the island. There had been many in the early days of the war, but the Greek fighters at the airfield at Preveza had shot down several and now the Italians gave the area a wide berth, save for the occasional reconnaissance aircraft, flying at high altitude with an escort. Too high to make out sufficient detail on the ground.
Which was as well, Sub-Lieutenant Andreas Katarides decided as he disembarked from the caique that had conveyed him and a handful of replacements from the mainland. Despite the camouflage netting there was plenty of evidence of activity that would reveal a military presence to any discerning photo reconnaissance officer. Three trucks were parked at the end of the quay and several crates of shells for the deck gun, as well as a row of torpedoes lying on their chocks in the open. The tents of the artificers and other maintenance teams lay in neat lines at the edge of the nearest terrace of olive trees. Worse still were the rainbow hues of a fuel spill that covered a broad expanse of the bay close to the hidden submarine.
Stepping off the gangway Andreas lowered his kit bag and stared across at the boat he had been assigned to, fresh from the academy. The graduation of his class had been brought forward to cope with the demand for men to fill out the ranks of the rapidly expanding navy. Andreas had been fortunate to secure a posting to a regular crew. Many of his comrades had been sent to serve on hastily converted vessels, or the handful of recommissioned ships dating back to the turn of the century. They would be deathtraps if ever they were unfortunate enough to come up against any of the more powerful warships of the Italian navy.
By contrast,
Papanikolis
was a modern vessel, bought from the French some years earlier. Her captain was equally formidable, Andreas had learned. Lieutenant Commander Iatridis was one of the most experienced submariners in the Hellenic navy. He had addressed the cadets at the academy shortly before the war between the great powers had broken out. Even though he was a thin, short man, Iatridis had a a deep, booming voice and he had had a dramatic effect on the aspiring young men with his fiery patriotism and fierce devotion to the service. Here was a man that Andreas felt he could willingly follow into battle and he had been delighted when he had been told he was to serve under Iatridis.
The submarine itself lay low in the water, painted dark grey, with sleek lines. The narrow deck was crowded with sailors passing supplies down through the hatches. Forward, several men manned a hoist as they strained to guide a torpedo into the angled chute leading down into the racks behind the tubes. A small Greek flag hung limply from the post at the rear of the conning tower. Andreas looked round the bay towards the cluster of whitewashed houses that lay behind the fishing boats drawn up on the beach. A handful of men were busy mending nets, chatting loudly as they smoked pipes. Beyond, some women busied themselves with laundry at a shallow stone trough, kneading the bundled cloth roughly before taking the clothes out to dry. Children chased each other in between the buildings while infants sat close to their mothers, playing in the dust. A narrow track, barely wide enough for the lorries, wound up through the olive terraces and then into the oak trees and gorse where the incline became steeper. And so the track continued, zigzagging up the side of the hill until it joined a wider road linking Sivota to the rest of the island.
It had been over two years since Andreas had last visited the quiet fishing village and he felt a tinge of sadness that the war had intruded on its solitude and disfigured the placid scenery. At the same time, from a professional perspective, the submarine’s base was well-chosen. The entrance to the bay was invisible from the open sea, due to the dog-leg in the channel. There was enough deep water for the submarine to turn easily and the steep sides of the surrounding hills sheltered the vessel and her crew from attack by air. Now that he considered the prospect, Andreas looked along the ridge line and saw a sandbagged machine-gun post, the fat barrel of a Hotchkiss gun pointing up at the sky with a sentry lounging beside it, leaning on the sandbags as he stared out to sea. A quick glance round the bay revealed the presence of two more posts covering the base. Hardly sufficient to defend it from a serious attack, but more than enough to give the sailors warning of the approach of the enemy by sea or sky.
The other replacements had already started off on the short walk along the shore to the pontoon and Andreas hefted his kitbag on to his shoulder and followed them. A sailor armed with a rifle was standing guard at the end of the pontoon and the new arrivals presented their papers to him. From the brief manner with which the sailor glanced at the official forms Andreas guessed that like many of his countrymen the sailor was barely literate. He waved the ratings through and then stood stiffly to attention and exchanged a salute with the young officer.
‘Sub-Lieutenant Katarides, appointed to
Papanikolis
,’ Andreas announced formally. ‘Where can I find the captain?’
The sentry turned and indicated a small cluster of tents erected in the shade of the nearest trees. ‘Over there, sir. Seated at the table.’
Andreas nodded in acknowledgement and put down his kitbag. ‘See to it that this is taken aboard for me.’ Then he strode towards his new commanding officer. Iatridis sat in his whites with a panama hat shading his eyes from the glare as he attended to paperwork. He looked up as soon as he became aware of the young officer approaching his desk, but kept his pen poised above the form he had been completing. He did not speak for a moment after Andreas had made his introduction, but ran his eyes over the new arrival and ended by staring hard at him. Andreas forced himself to meet his commander’s gaze unflinchingly. Iatridis had a broad, worn-looking face, heavily weathered and lined, with a small, neatly trimmed moustache that merged with the dark stubble on his heavy jowls. His dark eyes were sharp and glinted with intelligence. His body, however, seemed to belong to another man with its slender, wiry frame from which his clothes seemed to hang loosely. There was a pause before Iatridis nodded slightly, with apparent satisfaction, and lowered his pen and stretched his back.
‘I asked for you by name, Katarides. Do you know why?’
‘I assume it had something to do with my knowledge of these waters, sir.’
‘That, and the commendation of your instructors at the naval academy. They seem to respect your ability well enough, and I need good men on my boat.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Iatridis’s lips lifted in a brief smile. ‘Don’t thank me so readily. I’ll be taking the
Papanikolis
to sea the day after tomorrow. That won’t give you much time to familiarise yourself with the boat and the crew but that can’t be helped. You’ll serve as my navigator. The previous incumbant failed to meet the standard I require from my officers and has been reassigned to shore duties. If you fail me the same will happen to you. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Andreas felt a passing instant of anxiety before his resolve hardened. ‘You can rely on me, sir.’
‘I’m going to have to, Lieutenant.’ Iatridis removed his hat and ran a hand through his thick dark hair. ‘We’re at war. This is what we have trained for. We did not want to fight, but it has been forced on us and now we must defend Greece, and our people, with our lives. So far, our brothers in the army are holding off the enemy. From the latest reports it even appears that we are driving those Italian dogs back. Now it’s our turn, Katarides. But I must warn you, our navy is badly outnumbered and outgunned and when we sail to war there’s a good chance we will not be coming back. My orders are to patrol the Adriatic and attack Italian shipping wherever it is encountered. Priority targets are supply and troopships. Naturally they are likely to be protected, which will make our task hazardous. But, as I said, we are at war. It is our duty to make sacrifices for our country. Even these boys.’ He gestured towards the sailors toiling on and around the submarine. ‘Many of them have been in uniform for a matter of months and hardly any of my men have ever seen a shot fired in anger. Come to that, nor have I.’ He shared a quick smile with Andreas before his expression became serious again. ‘So, the time has come for us all to be tested, Lieutenant, and I am determined that we shall not be found wanting.’
‘I am confident we will all do our duty, sir.’
‘Of course you are,’ Iatridis responded briskly. ‘You’d better stow your kit and find the first officer. Lieutenant Pilotis is on board. He’ll show you your station, and assign you a berth. Dismissed.’
He saluted casually as Andreas stood to attention and snapped his hand to the brim of his cap, as he had been taught at the academy. Then he turned and relaxed his posture as he strode towards the pontoon and made for the gangway. Crossing the narrow wooden board he stepped on to the steel hull of the submarine. A thrill of excitement coursed through his veins at the sensation of setting foot on
Papanikolis
. This was the moment his training had led up to. This was the moment when he stopped being a cadet and became a leader of men.
Andreas was aware that some of the men were casting glances his way, already judging him. He straightened his back and took a long appraising look up and down the length of the boat, trying to appear as professional as possible. Steeling himself, he ducked through the hatch into the attack bridge and stood over the hatchway leading down into the heart of the submarine.
‘Coming down!’
The metal rungs of the ladder rang dully under his boots and a moment later he stood on the plated deck of the main bridge. The sounds of voices from other compartments carried on the still, humid air and Andreas felt hemmed in by the pipes, valves and dials of the vessel’s controls. In the middle of the cramped space stood the gleaming columns of the submarine’s two periscopes and ahead the seats for the men who controlled the steering planes. The air stank of diesel oil and sweat. A short, thickset man in a stained boiler suit, unbuttoned to his breast, leaned over the navigation table, concentrating on a slide rule. Wisps of his light brown hair lifted under the influence of an electric fan slowly sweeping the centre of the bridge.
Andreas cleared his throat. ‘Where’s the first lieutenant?’
The man looked up with a weary smile. ‘You found him.’
Andreas was surprised by the first officer’s scruffy appearance but he quickly stiffened and saluted. ‘Sub-Lieutenant Katarides, sir. Just arrived from Athens with orders to report to
Papanikolis
.’
‘So I understand. You, and those other green recruits I saw stumble off the caique.’
Andreas had experienced prejudice towards newcomers at every stage of his short naval career, but it still piqued his sense of pride. He knew better than to let it show and kept still and quiet while his superior watched him with an amused expression.
‘Relax, Katarides. I’m sure you’ll do fine. You’re to be the new navigator, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then this is your station.’ He stood up from the small table and waved Andreas over. ‘Don’t suppose the navy equipped you with any new charts or equipment?’
‘I have my own set of instruments, but no charts, sir.’
‘That’s a damn shame. Ours are years out of date. I sent a request for fresh charts months ago.’ He shrugged. ‘But you know what the ministry is like. I swear to Holy God that if we lose this war it will be because of the bureaucrats on our side rather than the soldiers, sailors and airmen of Mussolini.’
Andreas could not help smiling and the two shared a brief laugh that eased the tension.
‘Mind you,’ said Pilotis, ‘from what I’ve heard the bureaucrats in Italy are working hard for our side in return. That’s the only explanation for the poor show the Italians are putting on. They have more men and more guns but somehow don’t manage to put the latter into the hands of the former. Which is as well, otherwise Metaxas would be out on his arse and King Georgios would be running into exile.’
The frank expression of his disdain for the leaders of Greece might have shocked Andreas more if he had not grown up hearing the same refrain from his father.
‘So, you are good at maths?’ Pilotis cocked an eyebrow.
‘I passed fifth in my class, sir. That’s why I was chosen to specialise in navigation.’
‘Good, then you’ll know what to do with this.’ Pilotis tossed the slide rule to Andreas who nearly fumbled the catch. ‘What did your father do? Banker? Accountant? Teacher?’
Andreas shook his head. ‘A poet.’
Pilotis looked surprised and froze for an instant. ‘A poet? Holy God, what is the son of a poet doing in the navy?’
‘The same as any other Greek, sir. Defending his country.’
Pilotis chuckled. ‘Good answer. I’m sure they loved you at the academy . . . Wait, a poet you say? Not any relation of Spyridon Katarides? He’s supposed to live in these islands, I think.’
‘He does. Right here on Lefkas.’ Andreas hesitated. ‘He’s my father.’
A smile slowly stole across the other man’s face and he nodded gently. ‘Well, well . . . I’ve read your old man’s work. Good stuff. Even when he was trying too hard to be great. I preferred his early poems, where he describes the pleasures of wine and women. Went off his work when he turned his attention to our geography and ancient heritage. Still, I expect you must be proud of him.’
‘Of course. I am proud of all my family.’
‘And what does he make of his little boy now, I wonder?’ Pilotis cocked his head to one side. ‘Katarides was a bit of a radical, I recall. Denounced both the King and Metaxas in his time and had no love of the military. And yet, here you are.’