George was at home in Asi Gonia, sitting with his wife beneath the grape trellis, when he received a message from Paddy about the publication. He ran inside, grabbed his gun, and began firing joyfully into the air. Then he buckled back down to his next work: translating the Iliad and the Odyssey into Cretan rhyming couplets. “It was a brilliant and almost unbelievable achievement,” Paddy marveled.
George shrugged and said he mostly had a feel for the Cyclopes. “I am a shepherd, too, like Polyphemus, so I knew all about it.”
Xan Fielding hated missing out on the kidnapping, but he had other things to deal with—namely, a firing squad.
Instead of returning to Crete, Xan was parachuted into France in 1944 on a sabotage mission ahead of the Allied invasion of Normandy. On his first drive through enemy-occupied countryside, he and two seasoned Resistance operators were stopped by the Gestapo at a roadblock. Xan wasn’t all that worried: his French was excellent, his fake identity card was impeccable, and he was with Francis Cammaerts, the legendary master of mayhem who was already famous in Britain for seemingly impossible escapes. Xan also had a nifty cover story; he was searching for a new home for his elderly parents, and the other two gents were strangers who’d picked him up hitchhiking.
“You say you don’t know these men?” the Gestapo agent asked.
“I’ve never seen them before in my life,” Xan replied.
“Then can you explain how these bank notes, which each of you was carrying individually, happen to be all in the same series?”
Xan and Cammaerts had been lucky for too long and they’d gotten sloppy. They’d made the rookie mistake of divvying up one stack of cash for pocket money, all of it in sequential numbers. No amount of slick talking could convince the Gestapo that a straight run of serial numbers in the wallets of three complete strangers was a coincidence. Xan and his two fellow spies were hauled off to Digne prison and slated for execution. On the day they were to die, the three men were led into the prison courtyard—and out the other side. A staff car was waiting, and the three were ordered inside. The doors slammed shut and the car roared off. Christine Glanville, the Polish countess turned freedom fighter, had gotten word of the pending execution and raced to the rescue. Through some exquisite combination of tearful pleading and gentle bribery, she persuaded the Vichy guards who were keeping an eye on the prisoners that the Gestapo was about to make a horrible mistake. She got the spies out the door three hours before they were to be shot.
“Characteristically, Christine never told us exactly what methods she used to secure our release,” a still bewildered Xan would say. But one thing was certain: “She had voluntarily risked her life in the hope of saving ours.” Xan went on to further clandestine adventures in Cambodia before settling down to write. He found a kindred spirit in Pierre Boulle, the French secret agent who’d survived a hard-labor camp in Vietnam, and translated two of Boulle’s most famous works into English—The Bridge over the River Kwai and Planet of the Apes. Like Billy Moss, Xan remained close to Paddy until the end of his life and penned two stirring accounts of his time on Crete. When Xan died, in 1991, Paddy summed him up with four words: “He was altogether outstanding.”
The Butcher also got to tell his side of the story. General Friedrich-Wilhelm Müller was transferred late in the war to the Russian front and there was taken prisoner by the Soviets. He and one of his fellow Crete commanders, General Bruno Bräuer, were remanded to Greece to stand trial for war atrocities. Paddy visited the Butcher in prison and found him in a surprisingly receptive mood; when Paddy revealed that he was the one who’d kidnapped Kreipe, Müller laughed.
“Mich hätten Sie nicht so leicht geschnappt!” the Butcher retorted. “You wouldn’t have captured me so easily!” Soon after, he and Bräuer were taken out and shot.
. . .
For a long, long time, Paddy kept Crete to himself.
By the time he arrived in Egypt after the kidnapping, Paddy was burning with fever, and the paralysis that had locked his right arm had spread into his legs. “Within a week I was in hospital stiff as a plank,” he’d recall. Doctors were baffled. Was it polio? Rheumatic fever? Or post-traumatic stress, as one doctor speculated? “One is more anxious than one realizes,” he told Paddy, “and somehow, when the subconscious anxiety relaxes a bit, nature steps in indignantly.” Paddy spent three months in the hospital, sipping Moët & Chandon champagne from an ice bucket by his unfrozen left arm, until the ailment finally disappeared as mysteriously as it had arrived.
Back on his feet and with the war over, Paddy drifted in and out of romances and sponged off friends while trying to establish himself as a writer. He wangled an invitation to visit Somerset Maugham, who promptly kicked Paddy out of the house and called him “that middle-class gigolo for upper-class women.” Like Billy, Paddy struggled to find his bearings in a world that seemed so peculiarly normal; but unlike Billy, he refused to write about his two greatest adventures. No one else had ever kidnapped a general and witnessed Hitler’s rise while walking from the Netherlands to Constantinople, taking time out along the way to woo countesses, befriend gypsies, and sip old brandy with even older archdukes. Paddy was a truly magical storyteller, but the two stories he refused to tell were the ones everyone wanted to read.
But how could he? How could Paddy make himself out to be a hero after Crete taught him what a hero really is? Paddy was supposed to be a protector, a true companion whose arete and paideia—strength and skill—never outstripped his xenía: his humility and humanity. Villages were burned after the general was kidnapped. Women and children were murdered. Paddy’s own good friend Yanni Tsangarakis died at the point of Paddy’s gun. An accident, yes—but it’s hard to feel peace in your heart when the dead man’s nephew has sworn for thirty years to avenge his uncle’s death by putting a bullet in your head, and once even staked Paddy out with binoculars and a hunting rifle. Had Paddy truly been a protector on Crete, or just an adventurer? Heroes, after all, aren’t measured by the stories they tell—they’re measured by the stories told about them.
So Paddy wrote a forgettable novel and a few respectable travel books, all the while struggling to turn the magic that flowed from his mouth into something that would stick to the page. He found and married his soul mate, and together they built a home on a lonely stretch of the Greek coast. And it was there, in the land of the heroes, that he was struck by a magnificent idea. Godlike skill comes only with a human connection. A hero, in other words, needs a sidekick….
Paddy typed two words—“Dear Xan”—and memories came flooding back. Gypsies and boatmen. Hoofbeats and violins. Snatches of poems in forgotten languages. A beautiful girl at a Budapest ball, singing a song about birds so haunting that for the rest of his life Paddy would make it his signature: little scrawled wings of freedom and fantasy. He wasn’t behind a typewriter; he was back in a cave on Crete, sharing his adventures with a friend. Paddy shaped this letter to Xan into a literary marvel, a two-book series of adventure, history, and scholarship called A Time of Gifts and Between the Woods and the Water.
But for forty years, Crete remained a dark spot in his heart. Then at age sixty, Paddy received an urgent phone message from George Psychoundakis: Get here. Fast!