Naturally, that’s when disaster strikes.
When I stick the landing off the porch, a red-hot knife jabs me in the spine. My back is seizing so badly, I can’t even stand up straight. I should have known I was pushing my luck—fourteen-hour plane trips always leave me tight as a banjo string. So that’s it, I’m done. Until I remember Erwan’s motto.
Smart body, I remind myself. Use your smart body.
I take hold of the long pole that extends on a forty-five-degree angle up into the tree. Gingerly, I hook one foot up, then the other, until I’m hanging upside down from the pole like a pig on a spit. I tighten my grip and wonder what the hell to do next.
“Any ideas?” I ask Erwan.
“Claro,” he responds. “Sure. Lots of them.” It’s an excellent teaching moment, the perfect opportunity to dig into his mental archives and pull out a few of the innovations he’s compiled over the years. I’ve seen them in his notes, pages and pages of stick-figure drawings dating back to Georges Hébert’s original field experiments. Erwan has a lot of wisdom to pass on—but instead he just stands there, arms folded across his chest. He doesn’t give me a clue, or even a smile.
Neither do Zuqueto or Fábio. They’ve become hardcore converts to the essence of Erwan’s philosophy: when that volcano blows, you’ve got to be ready to go on your own. You won’t have any lifting partner to ease the bar off your chest, no volunteer handing you Gatorade at the twenty-mile mark. A group dynamic may be our natural impulse, but in a pinch, count on being a lonely man. The only thing you can always rely on is the ingenuity and raw mobility preprogrammed into your system by two million years of hope and fear.
My hands are slick with sweat and starting to slip off the pole. Just to get a better grip till I can think of something, I slowly start swinging from side to side, building up momentum. At the top of every swing, my body is suspended for a sec in midair. That’s when I move my hands and feet farther up the pole, gliding higher and higher with almost no pain or effort.
“Ahhh, you learned my secret!” Erwan calls from down below as I approach the top of the pole. “The best secret of all—your body always has another trick up its sleeve.”
CHAPTER 29
May God deliver you into the hands of the Greeks.
—A CORSICAN CURSE PADDY LIKED TO QUOTE
PADDY HAD A FEW TRICKS up his own sleeve. He had a pretty good notion of what to expect from the Butcher, and so he’d schemed accordingly. The Butcher was vicious but cautious, preferring to hit a target he knew wouldn’t hit back. He wouldn’t storm into the mountains after he discovered General Kreipe was missing; no, he’d make a move only when he knew what was going on. So first he’d fan out his spies and ransack the coastal villages, and that would lead him right to General Kreipe’s staff car, with the note inside and the phony British commando clues scattered around.
And by that point, Paddy’s last two bits of Magic Gang trickery would be in play: as soon as SOE headquarters got word they’d made the snatch, BBC Radio would broadcast a news flash saying the general was off the island and en route to Cairo. At the same time, British planes would letter-bomb Crete with leaflets saying British commandos had delivered the general to Egypt.
The Butcher would be furious, but he wasn’t crazy. With no blood on the ground, he wouldn’t launch a manhunt if there was no man to hunt. He’d probably triple-down his attempts to root out rebel nests, but those attacks would be localized and concentrated on specific targets; unless he absolutely had to, there’s no way he’d risk any more abductions by scattering his men across the mountains. That would take the heat off a little, giving Paddy and his gang enough breathing space to dart out in the open and get the general up and over stony Mount Ida and then down to the real embarkation point, on the southern coast.
All around, it was a lovely plan. For about six hours.
Paddy had split his band into three teams. Billy was up front, leading the general to the first rendezvous point. Paddy was catching up from the west after ditching the car on the beach. Andoni Zoidakis and his crew were coming from the east with Alfred Fenske, the general’s driver. Fenske was really slowing them down; he was still so wobbly from that crack across the skull Billy Moss gave him that he could barely walk. With sunup approaching, Zoidakis decided to take cover and let Fenske rest until dark. They wouldn’t have to worry about search parties until noon, maybe midafter—
Zoidakis froze. He poked his head out for a look, then yanked it back. Impossible. The Germans were on the hunt already? It was still night. How could they even know the general was gone? But there they were, fanned out in a search sweep just three hundred yards or so behind them. Zoidakis had to decide, fast, if they could slip away, with Fenske stumbling all over the place. Zoidakis must have looked worried, because the German driver got curious and stood up to see what was going on. Zoidakis slashed Fenske’s throat before he could open his mouth.
Almost immediately, Zoidakis regretted it. Fenske hadn’t actually done anything wrong. And Paddy was going to be so upset….
Which reminded him: they had to get word to Paddy right away. For some reason, the hunt was already on.
Destination 1 was a cave just outside the village of Anogia. The closer Billy and his team got, the more trouble they had with the general. As soon as Kreipe felt confident he wouldn’t be executed, he slowed down to a grumbling trudge. He was thirsty and really hungry, he complained; they’d grabbed him on his way home for supper. And his leg was killing him. Why’d they have to drag him out of the car like that? And where was his Knight’s Cross? Had anyone seen his medal? Billy kept pushing him along, finally making it to the cave in a cliff face. They pushed the general up, one handhold at a time, then slipped inside and disguised the mouth with torn branches. One of the gang slipped off to Anogia to rustle up some food and ask around for news.
Paddy and George Tyrakis weren’t far behind. But instead of going directly to the rendezvous, Paddy slipped into Anogia. He needed to get a messenger to Tom Dunbabin right away, and then sit tight for Tom’s reply. Tom was the last, crucial part of Paddy’s Magic Gang plan: Paddy was counting on him to make radio contact with Cairo and coordinate the letter bombing, the BBC broadcast, and the pickup boat.
As Paddy and George entered Anogia, doors and windows slammed shut around them. “All talk and laughter died at the washing troughs, women turned their backs and thumped their laundry with noisy vehemence; cloaked shepherds, in answer to greeting, gazed past us in silence,” Paddy observed. “In a moment we could hear women’s voices wailing into the hills: ‘The black cattle have strayed into the wheat!’ and ‘Our in-laws have come!’ ”
So this is what it’s like for the Germans, Paddy realized. Good! Many of the most effective Cretan freedom fighters—the andartes—were sons of Anogia. So deep was the villagers’ loathing for the Germans that even though Paddy was a well-known friend, all they could see was the uniform he was wearing. Even when he knocked up at the house of his good friend, the rebel priest Father Charetis, he wasn’t allowed through the door.
“It’s me, Pappadia!” he whispered to the priest’s wife. He gave her his code name: “It’s me: Mihali!”
“What Mihali?” she replied innocently. “I don’t know any Mihali.” Then she took a closer look. Only when she recognized the familiar gap between Paddy’s teeth did she let him inside. Paddy didn’t explain what he was doing there or why he was dressed like a German corporal, and everyone knew better than to ask. Father Charetis simply sent a boy off with Paddy’s message to Tom Dunbabin, then laid out food.