I had come to Crete to retrace the steps of the author and secret agent Patrick ‘Paddy’ Leigh Fermor during his mission to abduct the German commandant of the island during the Second World War. I had stumbled across this story during my very first trip to the island, while visiting the Historical Museum in Heraklion.
There an information board recounts the efforts by Paddy and other agents of the Special Operations Executive to infiltrate the island, disguise themselves as German soldiers, seize the commandant (by the time the mission actually went ahead, one Major-General Heinrich Kreipe), whisk him away through the night bundled into the back of his own staff car, then a daring trek to freedom across a mountain range to a waiting submarine in a concealed bay, all while being hunted by the German garrison who wanted their general back. The agents involved referred to it as their adventure, the general as a “hussar stunt”.
It’s a true Boy’s Own adventure, and I was fascinated. Upon my return home, I immediately set to researching as much as possible about this mission and these men. A few trips to the National Archives, the Imperial War Museum and the National Library of Scotland later, along with consultations with other like minded individuals and I’d built up a pretty decent understanding of the mission and the personalities involved (even if I do say so myself), but one question remained. What was it actually like to do this? I knew the timeline of events from the formal reports of the mission, I knew the escape route from Paddy’s hand drawn maps and I knew the conditions the SOE agents and their Cretan allies lived in from the brief diaries and accounts they have left. But what was it like?
With 2024 being the 80th anniversary of the operation, I resolved to find out. Nowadays there is a distinct lack of German commandants in Crete and it would probably be frowned upon to kidnap one even if there were any, but I could still walk along the routes the mission took and see the things they saw, as much as modern development (and my annual leave) allowed. Early February marks the arrival of Paddy via parachute jump into the remote Katharo plateau in the eastern part of Crete, then taking shelter in a nearby cave hidden amongst a forest of cypress trees while arranging the rest of the mission. Having found the rough location of the cave (apparently still known as “the cave of the English” and appearing as a waypoint on published hiking trails) and the precise coordinates of the parachute landing zone from the RAF’s flight records, it would be (in theory at least) a relatively easy hike from one to the other within the same day. I booked my tickets and was away!
Due to the lack of direct flights in February I sadly, tragically, unfortunately had to spend a day in Athens, before boarding a Minoan Lines ferry, the “Festos Palace”, to Crete, arriving in Heraklion harbour just after dawn broke and pierced the late winter clouds.
A quick trip to the Historical Museum to be reunited with the information boards that had sparked this whole expedition and the Archaeological Museum (almost deserted apart from a clutch of diehard tourists and the skeleton staff, an unusual sight when every other time I had been it was packed to the rafters with huge queues), then it was off, by bus, to Agios Nikolaos (Saint Nicholas), famous for its fresh water lake like a great blue eye at its centre, and the closest large town to where this part of the mission took place.
I checked into my hotel, the Nine Muses (it would be a lie to say the name hadn’t played a significant factor in my choice of accommodation), a small but comfortable place with windows and balconies doors opening to a breathtaking panorama of what the Venetians had named the Mirabello, aptly, the “beautiful view” and the islet of Agioi Pantes. After a brief foray to a supermarket for last-minute supplies, I attempted to settle in for an early night. Sleep, however, proved almost impossible due to excitement and trepidation at the adventure to come.
I woke early to make sure that I had plenty of time to make it to the station for the bus to Kritsa, a village on the bus route closest to both the cave and the parachute landing, yet still managed to almost make myself late by agonising over how many spare jumpers and emergency changes of socks to pack, change my mind and then repack (as it turned out, too many of one and not enough of the other). Bustling through the still sleeping town, I arrived just in time to purchase my ticket and catch my breath before the bus, a full sized coach and I the only passenger, emerged around the corner of the station depot. No turning back now!
The bus journey took only a few minutes (compared to the few hours of walking), and I was sudden in the centre of Kritsa,a picturesque little town, with many narrow streets built up on top of each other, with squares for shops and tavernas mixed in between, connected by winding tunnel-like passages. There were several churches, and as it was a Sunday, plenty of elderly parishioners on their way to the morning service. The largest church, Agios Giorgios (Saint George), was more like a small cathedral, its dome dominating the skyline of the north side of town. Outside was an icon of the saint and a small collection box. I am not in any way religious, but given the occasion and the nature of the task ahead, I popped in a few spare coins, hoping the saint was in a good mood and would keep an eye on me anyway.
A set of concrete stairs on the very edge of the village led onto the long, meandering and convoluted tarmac road onwards and upwards to Katharo, and there was nothing more to do for now but push on and admire the view. Ahead the mountains, covered in snow, seemingly distant yet also looming over me. Behind, a spectacular view of Kritsa and the entire valley all the way down to the Mirabello, the Sea of Crete glittering in the clear sunlight.
It was a glorious day of clear blue sky and warmth despite being so early in the year and going proved slower than expected, mainly due to having to stop and take in the view, hardly believing that this is a real place, and also to avoid the hidden goats springing themselves out of the roadside undergrowth at exactly the right time to emerge directly into the path of the occasional car.
After about an hour of walking I had reached the first waypoint I had marked on my map, a dusty trail departing from the main road and a hand painted sign in the shape of an arrow pointing me towards the “Old Path to Katharo Plateau”.
A very dramatic, almost cinematic trail stretched out with snow-covered mountains on one side and a cypress forest clinging to the foothills directly in front of me, though far distant. Long and undulating, the trail passed quickly, with herds of curious goats and the clinking of their bells for company.
The trail gradually began to slope down into a valley, gnarled and ancient trees gradually getting thicker and thicker as the scrubby land gave way to the forest proper.
It then started to peter out at the valley floor, itself what appeared to be a large dried up river bed, with innumerable rocks, from small pebbles to vast boulders, frozen in their march towards the sea (the riverbed turned out to be that of the Kálos Potamós, which emerges further along the valley and flows back down through Kritsa and then onto the Mirabello).
With the trail coming to an end it was time to put my research to the test and find out if the hiking app that has the cave as a way point as part of a larger trek is accurate and I’m not going to be aimlessly wandering the woods.
After a few minutes exploring the riverbed and valley floor to get my bearings, I continued along the last dying gasps of the trail, now going up the other side of the valley, little more than the ruts and potholes left behind by 4x4s that had passed through. Such a vehicle, a pickup, was a short way along, and I would soon be introduced to the owner. The trail finally gave up the ghost at a wide clearing strewn with rocks, goats and sheep grazing amongst them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly noticed the presence of a human figure, rising from where they had been bending down tending to the goats. We spent a moment just staring at each other in surprise, not quite sure we were actually seeing what we were seeing, before I called out my cheeriest “Hello!” and waved. Quickly double checking the post it-note of useful Greek I had taped to the back of my phone (as though I haven’t rehearsed it a dozen times over already) I followed up with “Spilia ton Anglon? (Cave of the English?)”. The figure, a man dressed in mismatched camo, clearly a shepherd, approached closer to get a good look at me. He looked me up and down, sighed and in a rough voice said “come here” and gestured for me to follow.
It would be a cliche to say he bounded across the rocks as nimbly as one of his goats. That is exactly what he did, as I struggled to simultaneously keep up and maintain my balance following his path. He paused in the centre of the clearing and pointed up, and up, and up at an alarming angle, towards the valley side and the mountain that loomed above it. Up close, he had a round, kind face, skin darkened by working under the Mediterranean sun, pure black hair buzzed extremely short, with several teeth on the right side of his mouth missing.
He gesticulated back and forth between the valley side and a nearby rock, tracing patterns with his hands as he went. Both hands held fingers towards each other and curved – a roof? A hill? Then three fingers placed flat down. The logs/branches that I had seen photos of that indicate the mouth of the cave? He was clearly describing the cave! I was on the track! He could not speak enough English nor I enough Greek to properly talk, but I thanked him as best I could, then we turned back to our respective tasks. Continuing on through the goat field, the terrain amongst the trees becoming rougher and the slope steeper. The orange soil giving way more and more to bare grey rock and the hike more and more into a clamber, with the slope in some places so steep I had to grab on to every available rock and branch to haul myself up the side of the valley.
A misplaced step, a trip and a shower of pebbles cascading down, caused me to stop and wonder, as I supported my entire weight with one hand on a incredibly uncomfortable rock, if this may have been a bad idea, but the map app was showing I was within striking distance of the cave, and trying to get back down at this point would probably be more dangerous than pressing on. Plus, the view was becoming increasingly spectacular!
Towards the middle of the valleyside the slope levelled out a tad and reverted back to being a hike, albeit one at great height and an almost sheer drop to one side, with the formations of the rocks creating a new trail upwards, with the occasional rift to squeeze through or boulder to be awkwardly vaulted.
These crags, in turn, gave way to a large open plateau, flanked by trees that now have space and soil to grow in abundance. Pushing across, I became aware of patches of frost still clinging to the shadows and amongst the rocks.
Now back into the forest proper, according to the map I was now almost directly on top of the cave and, matching the shepherds directions, the ground to the left side of the plateau was forming a low mound, distinct even amongst the trees and rolling landscape all about. Like Gawain searching for the Green Chapel, I looked all about, trying to match what I could see with the photos I had found from others who had been there before. Then, suddenly, there it was, I had very nearly walked past it!
A jagged cleft in the earth, with three logs placed across to form a roof and darkness beyond it. This was the place! The place Paddy and his comrades had sheltered, from the elements and from the enemy.
Carefully lowering myself down the rocks that formed natural steps and crouching to avoid the low dividing rock that formed a corridor downwards, shon my torch to get a good look at the interior.
The interior of the cave was roughly circular, about 10 meters across. To the left-hand side, about half the cave floor was flat, forming a ledge where a few men could comfortably sit, huddled together, or a radio set and its equipment could be set up. To the right, a slope depending into a jumble of rocks and bones, all slick from the constant drip from above. All around, the walls and ceiling were thick with mineral formations and stalactites. All in all, the very image of a cave from some romantic adventure story.
Emerging back into the sunlight, it was time for some lunch and to take stock. This was a nice little jaunt in the lovely sunshine with a nice hotel to return to, via taxi if things got too bad. But to live like this, for months and years at a time, having to scramble across this sort of terrain to avoid a merciless enemy and no one coming to help you? Even the cave, while interesting, was cold and damp, and though friends, fire, wine and song could have made things more comfortable, it would still be a miserable place to spend a winter, as Paddy, the other SOE agents sent to Crete and the Cretans themselves had done.
The strength and toughness, physically and mentally, of all these people, to continue to fight for their freedom in such conditions must have been incredible.
Though I had spent hours reaching the cave, I could only a spend a short time there, as the day was only half done and I had to move on to my next target, the drop zone, and it was a long way back down as well. Bidding farewell to the cave and a small herd of inquisitive goats who had gathered to see what I was up, I checked my map and deciding that trying to climb (more like tumble) down the slope I had barely managed to scramble up, was not in my best interests, opted for a longer though gentler route back to the trail head, via the dried up river.
Once out of the bulk of the trees and the off the hill, I came across a long, rectangular clearing, picked out with snow? Could this be “the front drive” Paddy refers to when briefly describing the cave in a wartime letter?
The river bed was a much easier hike than the way up, mainly being an exercise in following the natural path cut into the valley, and lowering myself down from one layer of rocks to the next, trying to find a spot where it was not too high and perilous to do so.
I was soon back where I started, the valley floor where the river bed met the end of the trail from the main road. I did think to quickly dash back up the slope to see if I could find the shepherd and somehow tell him I had found the cave thanks to his help, but time was pressing on, it was by now mid afternoon and despite the lovely clear blue skies and sunshine all day, it was still early February and darkness and cold would be fast approaching. Back up along the trail, back to the hand painted sign and on my way, once again upwards to Katharo.
I still had a long way to go to reach Paddy’s landing zone, the road was steep and clouds were starting to gather…
