Authors: Damien Lewis
Before the war the German industrialist Horst Dannert had invented an oil-tempered form of steel wire. It was so strong that it could be produced in concertinas that were self-supporting. In other words, coils of this high-grade wire – which was extremely difficult to cut – could be strung across the ground without stakes or posts, and with just the odd retaining staple hammered into the earth. It was the forerunner of modern-day razor wire.
Cruelly barbed, this was what Lassen and Jones now faced. As they were engaged in cutting through the Dannert wire a sentry on the opposite side seemed to detect something. He lit a cigarette, and stood there scanning the fencing, his unmoving presence blocking their onward progress. Perhaps he had heard the distinctive sound of blades snipping through strands of wire, as Jones and Lassen worked their way through the fencing.
Time was running on, and their way forward was blocked. Lassen reached for his Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife, and moving silent as a wraith he stole through the shadows and killed the sentry – the first of the enemy to die that night.
Waving Jones forward, they pushed onto the wide loop of track that ran around the airbase – a taxiway for warplanes waiting to use the runway.
As they skirted around a hangar-like building, they could hear a warm murmur of voices coming from inside. It was a Saturday night, so doubtless the minds of those manning Kastelli Airbase were drifting to thoughts of loved ones back home. Soon now, Lassen and Jones would shake them out of any such cosy reveries.
*
Several hundred yards to the east Nicholson and Greaves had found the going relatively easy, Georgios leading them to a point where no sentries seemed to block their passage through the Dannert wire. But as they’d snipped the first strands they were forced to freeze, a searchlight sweeping its beam across them. Nicholson was a firm believer in using mind over matter to conquer any fear he might feel. He put such skills to good use now.
‘Keep perfectly still,’ he hissed at Greaves, ‘but don’t drop down. If we move an inch, they’ll see us.’
Sure enough, it seemed to be movement that drew the operators’ eyes – and the intense white light swung past them with barely a pause. By freezing each time the light flashed by, Nicholson and Greaves managed to cut their way through the wire undetected.
With no immediate sentries to deal with they stole onto the eastern edge of the airbase well ahead of Lassen and Jones. They crept across to the ghostly silhouette of the nearest aircraft. It turned out to be a Fi 156 Storch, a skeletal-looking
two-seater observation plane that fully deserved its name –
Storch
; Stork – a long-legged, big-winged bird.
The
Storch
had unrivalled short take-off and landing capabilities, but it was hardly the choicest of targets. Yet it would do for a start, Nicholson decided. As far as he could tell it had the added advantage of having no sentries posted anywhere near it.
Crouching in the cover of the
Storch
’s fixed, spindly-looking undercarriage, Nicholson pulled out the first of his charges. Up close the Lewes bombs didn’t look like much. A stodgy lump of what resembled bread dough – but was in fact plastic explosive mixed with thermite gunpowder – each was around a pound in weight, oily to the touch, and stuck like a hedgehog with detonator, fuse and timing pencil.
The key to the Lewes bomb’s destructive power lay in getting the charge as close to an aircraft’s fuel tanks as possible. That way, the flash of the thermite exploding would ignite the aviation fuel, rendering the target into a seething fireball. Their first charge was placed on the
Storch
’s wing-root fuel tanks – where the wings met the fuselage. Presuming the aircraft had been refuelled to capacity, there should be some 40 gallons of aviation fuel ready to be triggered by the explosion.
Having broken the glass phial that triggered the timing pencil, Nicholson and Greaves were ready to move onto the next obvious target, a Ju-88
Schnellbomber
situated a few dozen yards away. But as they flitted across to it, Nicholson spotted three figures gathered beneath the aircraft’s streamlined fuselage. Just as the local villagers had warned, the most prized warplanes lining the Kastelli Airbase runway had groups of guards stationed beside them round the clock.
Beyond that first
Schnellbomber
Nicholson could see another, and for some reason it appeared to be unguarded. Sneaking past the nearest sentries, he and Greaves made their cautious way toward that aircraft. Creeping around the sleek fighter-bomber’s nose cone, they reached up with two Lewes bombs, placing one each under the aircraft’s wing, where the right and left fuel tanks were situated.
Then, in the far shadows, Nicholson spotted the unmistakable gull-winged silhouette of a Ju 87 Stuka. The distinctive dive-bomber was reviled by Allied troops, and especially those who had been on the receiving end of a Stuka attack. When serving in 7 Commando at the start of the war, Nicholson was one of only sixteen survivors after a bloody confrontation with the enemy, and he knew the Stuka well. Its howling siren struck the fear of God into even the most steely-hearted soldier.
Nicholson wanted that Stuka.
Lying low for a minute or so, he and Greaves studied the dive-bomber carefully – all the while knowing that the timing pencils on the
Schnellbomber
and the
Storch
had been triggered, and the countdown to the explosions was underway. Figuring they could dodge any sentries, Nicholson led Greaves towards the squat silhouette of the Stuka, as a heavy quiet and a tension seemed to creep across the airbase. Reaching up to place the first Lewes bomb, Nicholson heard the sudden dull crack of a low-velocity bullet echoing across the airstrip. It had sounded like a single pistol shot.
It had come from the west, and Nicholson didn’t doubt it meant that Lassen was in action.
Flares burst in the angry night, as Jones shoved the last of his charges onto a target. Burning with a blinding white light like a miniature sun, each flare oscillated gently to and fro as it drifted beneath its parachute towards earth. The western edge of Kastelli Airbase was cast into their harsh white light. Jones felt himself horribly exposed under the blinding glare, which was almost as bright as daylight.
Having felled a German sentry with his pistol Lassen had thrown caution to the wind. He was going at it hammer and tongs with a scavenged German machine gun, as bullets popped and fizzed all around him. The guard force in the barracks was returning fire, and a wailing alarm pierced the staccato crackle of gunfire.
Jones hurried on to a final target – a
Schnellbomber
. It was inconceivable to leave without planting a charge on that. As he dragged out another Lewes bomb, an armoured halftrack slewed onto the runway, disgorging six German foot soldiers. The enemy had him and Lassen penned in on three sides now, and they were moving to block their only exit – the hole cut in the fenceline.
Lewes bomb set, Jones ran to link up with Lassen, as bullets snarled all around him. The Dane unleashed a final, savage
burst with the machine gun, then jumped from the enemy bunker and ran. As he did so, he dropped a grenade behind him. It tore apart the gun emplacement, lacerating the position with shrapnel.
Jones and Lassen sprinted for the gap they’d cut in the fence, just as there was a massive
boom
from behind them. One of the warplanes to their rear dissolved in a seething fountain of flame, punching a mushroom cloud of thick oily smoke high above the runway. Two further blasts followed in quick succession, as the first of the Stukas writhed under the impact of Lewes bombs, followed an instant later by the hollow
whump
of their fuel tanks exploding.
Almost at the same time a massive eruption of fire fisted skywards towards the east of the airbase, from the direction of the ammunition dumps and the fuel store. With all the gunfire erupting at Lassen’s end of the operation, the Germans had rushed their troops to that side of the airbase, leaving Nicholson and Greaves with a clear run at things.
In fact, Nicholson and Greaves were convinced that Lassen and Jones had either been captured or most likely killed – for how could anyone survive the volume of fire that was raking the western side of the airbase? As the German garrison was drawn to the savage firefight around Lassen’s position, Nicholson and Greaves figured that he and Jones were done for.
In truth, the wild Dane and his fellow English raider were running as if they had the Devil and all his demons at their backs. In all the confusion of the surprise attack they managed to lose the enemy and make the fenceline, slipping through the hole cut in the wire. Yet once they were through, a breathless
but elated Lassen called a halt. From behind wild cries and curses rang out in German, punctuated by further explosions and sporadic bursts of gunfire.
Figures were darting to and fro like ants, as the Germans hunted for the elusive attackers. Amazingly, they seemed to have no idea where the raiders might be. Above the airbase the sky was lit a fierce, burning orange, and in the glow of the dozen or more fires that were burning to either side of the airstrip Lassen could see further targets …
He signalled Jones to lie low and wait. Once all seemed relatively quiet around their position, Lassen indicated that they were going back in. On the one hand, it was borderline insanity to return to the airbase, now the element of surprise was well and truly lost … but on the other it was the last thing the enemy would be expecting.
Jones, as fearless as a lion, was swept up in Lassen’s wild enthusiasm for the fight, and both men prepared to crawl back through the wire.
*
As the two raiders – one tall, slim and blond, the other shorter, stockier, with a shock of dusky hair – squirmed back through the hole they’d cut in the Dannert wire, Nicholson was leading Greaves out the other way. In their wake they’d left Lewes bombs on the first Stuka that Nicholson had so wanted to destroy, plus another they’d spotted lying in a blastproof shelter. By then a truck-load of German reinforcements had arrived, dispersing in all directions as they hunted for the saboteurs, and Nicholson and Greaves had come under sustained fire. Nicholson had sensibly decided to withdraw, and as they made
their way back to the outer fence they managed to garland the fuel dump with the last of their Lewes bombs. He and Greaves had wriggled through the wire, while behind them the generator room exploded in a mass of plastic explosive and thermite sparks, after which a fuel truck was practically torn in two by a cataclysmic blast.
As its cargo of burning aviation fuel sucked in oxygen and boiled and flared, Nicholson and Greaves escaped into the darkness. The heat of the explosions was strong on their backs, the two men sprinting for the cover of the vineyard and comparative safety. Searchlights swept the terrain to either side of them. Several times they were forced to hit the deck, fearing the bullets they were sure would slam into their backs. But finally they reached the first rank of the ancient grapevines, and slipped into its cover.
In Nicholson’s mind there was no point waiting for the others, or even making for the agreed RV. Neither he nor Greaves were in any doubt that Lassen and Jones were finished. With barely a pause to link up with Georgios, who’d waited faithfully for them, they set off on the long trek that lay ahead. Behind them, Kastelli Airfield was racked with further explosions and long bursts of gunfire.
*
A dozen kilometres to the north-east of Kastelli Airbase, Patrol B was also going into action, albeit against a very different kind of target: the fuel and ammunition dump packed with 200,000 litres of aviation fuel, plus thousands of pounds of bombs. Over the past few hours, Janni, their youthful Cretan guide, had kept a watch on the sentry routine at the dump. During the night
hours guards with dogs patrolled both the fuel and ammo stores, so the raiders would have to take extra care.
As Janni had led the four-man force down from their hideout in the hills, Dick Holmes had been struck by how brave and skilful their Cretan guide appeared to be. Demonstrating an admirable fearlessness, Janni had led them across the main road running into nearby Heraklion town, and at just before midnight they were in position to attack. The problem was they could see a German officer with a fierce-looking German Shepherd prowling the grounds ahead of them, and they would need some ruse to get them past the dog undetected.
For twenty minutes they remained secreted in an olive grove, scoping out the plan of attack. Finally they agreed to split up. Janni would lead Holmes to the fuel dump by crawling along a narrow gully, which should keep them out of sight of the officer and his dog. The gully terminated some thirty yards short of the massed ranks of fuel drums, whereupon they’d face a dash across the darkness to get in among them.
Meanwhile, Lamonby and the others would head for the adjacent bomb dump, which had the added barrier of a Dannert wire fence.
At first, all went well. Holmes and Janni reached the end of the gully, whereupon Holmes readied his backpack of Lewes bombs and darted forward alone. There was a high earthen berm encircling the fuel dump, so Holmes had no option but to make for the one narrow opening leading into it. Having stolen through that, ahead of him lay a central passageway leading between the shadowed heaps of drums.
He hurried ahead, knelt at the central point, and to left and right planted the first of his charges, shoving them as far under the metal drums as he could reach. That done, he pushed out to the fuel dump’s perimeter and did the same again. Holmes felt surprisingly calm and collected, despite the fact that he knew the German officer with his dog must be prowling about somewhere nearby.
Charges placed, he hurried back to the entrance, stuck his head out to check that the way was clear, and almost ran right into the enemy patrol. There before him not thirty yards away were the sentry and his dog. Holmes ducked back inside and took cover. Aware of the acid eating through the timing pencils that he’d triggered, he knew he had to get out of there before the charges blew.
Just then another sentry with a dog turned up, and the two men began chatting away in German. They were stationed at the entrance and Holmes was effectively trapped. To make matters worse, both of the dogs were whining and growling in a most worrying way, and Holmes felt certain they had sensed him.
After nattering away for what seemed like an age – and now and again ordering their dogs to be quiet – the sentries finally moved on. Holmes seized his chance, crept out of the fuel dump and made it back into the gully without being detected. With Janni at his side he retraced his steps to the RV, only to learn that Lamonby’s group had failed to make it into the bomb dump due to the sentries and the wire.
Before leaving, Janni had one last task to execute. Taking the Union Jack ‘decoy’ flag from one of their backpacks, he dashed
down the gully and left it in a place where, come daybreak, the Germans were bound to find it. That way, they would be less likely to take reprisals against the local Cretans.
Or so everyone hoped.
At 0110 hours the first of Holmes’s charges went off. The resulting cataclysm was so intense that streams of burning fuel were blasted over the earthen berm and spurted through the bomb dump, setting off the explosives stored there. As a result, it too was blown sky high – the heavens above the fuel and ammo dump turning a terrible, bloody red, and a massive pall of toxic, oily smoke blotting out the stars.
*
At Kastelli Airbase all was fiery chaos and confusion too. Lassen and Jones were still very much alive, but only just. As their comrades headed for the hills, they had made a mad dash back through the hole in the fence. But even as they’d squirmed through they could see that the way ahead was blocked. A phalanx of German troops was pouring onto the runway to hunt for whoever was blowing their airbase to smithereens.
Lassen made a snap decision. Signalling Jones to wait he ripped off his hat, so exposing his white hair, pulled out his Luger, and stepped into the open.
‘Over there! Over there! Intruders!’ Lassen yelled in German, shooting into the darkness.
The German soldiers followed his lead, firing into the night, after which Lassen dashed off after the imaginary intruders, drawing the German soldiers with him. Jones took the cue and dropped into the cover of a drainage ditch from where he
could see how Lassen was faring, and how he might be able to help.
A fire truck came tearing across the runway. Men wielding hoses began pouring water onto a stricken Ju-88. But just as Lassen and Jones had hoped, the blistering heat from the burning aircraft proved too intense for the German fire crew. In an instant the next sleek fighter-bomber in line burst into flames, the force of the blast throwing the fire engine half across the runway.
As further
Schnellbombers
were caught in the seething firestorm, Lassen seized his chance and slipped away from the phalanx of German soldiers that he had been ‘commanding’. He strode towards the main gate to try to bluff his way through, but the gate guards were immediately suspicious. Guns were raised.
‘I’m with you, fools!’ Lassen barked. ‘Partisans all over the place! We need more men! They’re hitting the barracks!’
Several of the guards leapt into action, and Jones watched in disbelief as, for a second time, Lassen led a group of German soldiers into the thick of things. And then came the big one: to the eastern side of the airstrip the ammunition dump went up like a mini-nuke, and in an instant the entire base was lit up by a series of long, searing blasts.
Ammunition cooked off – powerful, juddering explosions ripping the night apart, and rendering the sky above the airbase one huge firework display. In the searing light the guard nearest Lassen must have finally got a proper look at his face and uniform. Lassen noticed the immediate change in his demeanour. As the German barked a yell of alarm, Lassen
decided there were too many for him to take on. He made a break for it, dashing into the shadows.
Bullets whined and snarled after him as the Germans gave chase. Lassen found himself running for his life, and he and Jones sprinted back towards the fence and safety. After the months of Athlit training they were fitter than the enemy, but they were also exhausted from the rigours of the long trek into the target. It was the Benzedrine as much as anything that gave them the edge, but neither man was able to outrun a well-aimed German bullet.
Lassen and Jones must have got disoriented in all the confusion, for when they made the wire they couldn’t find their entry point. In a mad scramble and with hands cut to pieces, they fought their way across the Dannert fence and dropped onto the far side.
But it was then that a guttural cry split the darkness: ‘
Halt! Hände hoch!
’
Lassen froze as a torch pinned him in its beam. An anti-aircraft battery had been positioned in a bunker lying outside the base perimeter, to better deter Allied warplanes. The German gunners manning it had spotted Lassen and Jones and had them covered. They ordered Lassen to drop his weapon.
‘
Hände hoch! Hände hoch!
’
‘
Dummkopfs
!’ Lassen roared, his German ringing with officer-like authority. ‘Idiots! There are Tommies inside the aerodrome, plus the partisans. Turn your gun and engage them!’
‘Sir!’
As the Germans gunners spun around their weapon to open fire on the imaginary enemy, Lassen and Jones managed to slip away into the shadows of the night. It was yet another narrow escape, but the Dane still didn’t appear satisfied.
Kastelli Airbase was crawling with enemy, but Lassen figured there was one part of the target area that remained quiet. If they could sneak through the wire once more and sow some final chaos there, their work would be well and truly complete. Buoyed by his commander’s apparent fearlessness, Jones figured what the hell – they may as well give it a try.