Continuing my efforts to retrace the steps of wartime secret agent Patrick “Paddy” Leigh Fermor and his landing by parachute into occupied Crete, I was once again on the main road between the villages of Kritsa and Katharo in the eastern Lasithi district of the island, having left the “old path” behind me.
The job now was to head to the spot where Paddy had landed on the night of 4th February, 1944. This would be a much simpler task, as according to the map, I simply needed to follow the established road all the way to Katharo and then down a few country lanes. I had found the coordinates of his parachute landing zone from the RAF sortie report held in the National Archives in Kew. While it wouldn’t be the precise spot Paddy hit the ground, he describes it as a near perfect landing, so shouldn’t be too far off. Close enough, at least, to get a good impression of the landscape and sense of place he was jumping into. A much simpler task, so I thought…
Back onto the main Kritsa-Katharo road, with the spectacular views of the sparkling Mirabello bay filling the horizon, and on up the plain tarmac road to my destination. Not far from the trailhead of the “Old Path”, a small, unkempt but noticeable pile of rocks on the roadside turned out to be a memorial, bearing the logo of the KKE, the Greek communist party. A quick Google Translate revealed this to be a memorial to a local group, founded on this remote roadside spot a few years after the war.
A short distance further, a hand painted arrow sign marked “cave” pointed off the road down another dirt path.
While I was aware I was short on time, it was still relatively early and as I was unlikely to be back in this part of Crete for quite some time, it wouldn’t do much harm to quickly “pop in”.
The dirt path led to a rusted and, given the general decrepit state of the accompanying fence, redundant iron gate, followed by rock cut steps leading down into a wide circular sinkhole. All about the perimeter were nooks and crevices of various shape and size, but one side of the hole was dominated by the enormous mouth of the cave proper.
With more steps forming part of a natural path leading down into the main chamber, hundreds of stalactites and stalagmites merged together all along the walls, and a huge rock dividing the centre like a spinal column, which along with the slick of constant drips from the roof, created the impression of being inside the body of some colossal and alien fish, its ribs and bones exposed. As with Paddy’s cave, the cavern floor consisted entirely of wet decaying plant matter blown in from the surface, intermingled with the bones and tufts of fur from goats and sheep that had stumbled into the darkness and perished. Off to the left, a small low opening led to a further, smaller chamber beyond.
Having explored enough of the cave as was sensible, it was time to get back on track for my actual object and head for the surface. It was while internally pontificating on the psychological and supernatural power of caves and the ancients belief in chthonic spirits and deities and so forth, that I ever so slightly misjudged the height of the gap between the two chambers and clipped the very top of my head on the rock! Not particularly hard or particularly fast, but enough to send an outburst of my finest Anglo-Saxon echoing all around the cave, more from surprise than pain.That and a sudden, horrible wet feeling on the forehead. A horrible wet feeling on the forehead that quickly turned into a wet trickle down the face, that turned into the entire right eye of my glasses turning red from the torrent of blood now running out of my head. Scrambling back up the path to the surface into proper light and a fumble for tissues and wet wipes in my backpack, with much dabbing and using my phone screen as a mirror, the damage was revealed to be dramatic but tiny and purely superficial.
Having determined I wasn’t actually in any way hurt, and washed away the trail of blood splatters I had created, I was up the steps, across the path and back onto the road. No more messing around, time to get to Katharo!.
The road was not particularly arduous, though steeper and steeper with every step as it snaked up and along the valleyside, and the sky slowly turning from clear crystal blue, to patches of fluffy cloud, to white, to ominous grey. The landscape as well, as the road meandered ever upwards, became more and more dusted with frost. The roofs of the occasionally passing cars and pick up trucks heading back towards Kritsa and Agios Nikolaos too were covered in snow. Some even had snowmen, complete with twig arms and carrot noses, it being something of a winter tradition when it snows to build as large a snowman as possible on top of your car and then rush home or to a beach and see how much of it is left standing.
Further along the slope the raw material for these snowmen lay thick on the ground and soon the whole valley resembled a Christmas card.
Up ahead the road opened out into a wider plateau of sorts, with a number of cars parked next to a sheltered area that formed a viewpoint back down to the valley and to the sea beyond. A little girl was loading carrier bags into the boot of one and dashed over the road to what, when not covered in ice and snow, would be the ideal picnic area, with wooden tables and stone barbeque pits dotted around. Clustered around one was a family, the children playing in the snow and the adults in the closing stages of a meal, wrapping up the leftovers and extinguishing the small fire in one of the pits. Seeing me hurry past, we exchanged polite waves and the father approached. He asked where I had come from, where I was going and if I would like a lift back into town. I explained what I was doing and why (to many exclamations of “bravo!”) and politely declined his offer, and parted with a handshake and a warning. It was going to get dark in about an hour or so.
This was ideal for my purposes, as according to my satnav, I was only half an hour or so away from Katharo and, as Paddy had landed at night, arriving just as the sun sets would make finding, photographing and experiencing the place much easier than doing so in total darkness. However, it would also be getting colder and despite being well prepared for the conditions and checking the forecasts regularly, I didn’t want to be stuck there in the dead of night in unexpected snow or rain. With new wings added to my feet, I set off, determined to get there before the nature imposed deadline.
A few minutes later my satnav chirped up and suggested I could cut four minutes off my journey time by taking a shortcut off the main road, up a much steeper but shorter footpath. Four minutes extra would surely be worth the climb and so I set off. This new path began with a boulder strewn field covered in much deeper snow, with footprints of people who had been there earlier in the day zigzagging back and forth between them and upwards, back into the tree line and the slope of the valleyside. Things started well, matching my footsteps with the footprints to ensure I didn’t have to completely trudge through the snow, but the snow quickly got deeper and the existing footprints became slippery from the refrozen and compacted ice and, coupled with the increasing steepness of the path as its zigzagged up the side of the valley resulted in another scramble.
This wouldn’t be so bad, had I not made the classic blunder of noticing that one of my bootlaces was untied and decided that it would be fine for the few minutes it would take to get to a more comfortable place to sit and tie it. Approximately 30 seconds after making this decision, the same boot remained stuck in a patch of snow as the rest of me continued on for several steps, followed by hopping back through the snow to recover it. This was followed by the indignity of having to squelch the last few metres up the trail and back onto the main road with one very cold and very wet sock.
By the time this diversion was complete and I had changed my socks, wrung out the now dripping original, and properly retied my laces, I’m not entirely convinced I had actually gained the 4 minutes that was supposed to be the advantage of the detour. Nevertheless another hand painted sign revealed that this had been an ancient Minoan trail and I was now within striking distance of Katharo.
Here the road reached the top of the valley and passed through another flat, wooded area where a few diehard snowmen builders were in the final stages of packing up and heading for home, their cars juddering and skipping as the wheels fought against the ice to get them back onto the clear tarmac of the road. I was on the edge of the village of Katharo now and a sharp bend in the road and a gap in the trees provided an excellent view across the plateau. The few descriptions of the place in the books and accounts of the Kreipe mission are accurate. A long valley, narrow at the sides and spirit level flat at the bottom. A few houses scattered here and there amongst vineyards, their patterns clearly visible even from a distance and the vines having shed their leaves for winter slumber.
With the last few rays of orange, pink and purple sinking behind the opposite valley side (rosy fingered Astraios doesn’t have quite the same ring to it) and a blanket of cloud filling the sky, I passed through Katharo itself. The main village being only a handful of houses clustered around a square with a church and a few tavernas. Several of the buildings had eye catching chimneys, beautifully decorated with metalwork in the shape of birds.
I was very close now and following my satnav to the coordinates down yet more country lanes and dirt paths, the melting snow forming miniature lakes and streams in my path.
And then without announcement or fanfare, I arrived at the coordinates. N 35 08 30. E 25 33 56. This is the spot recorded as the team’s designated parachute drop in the sortie report for Operation Whimsical.
The edge of a field, one of the vineyards I had seen from my earlier vantage point, the stubs of vines in neat rows. A fitting place for Paddy, known for his fondness for the finer things in life, to make his grand entrance.
Here (or at the very least, close by) is where he made an almost perfect landing, then as now in the snow. Here is where fellow SOE agent Sandy Rendel and the Cretan andartes had rushed to be reunited with their friend and colleague. Here is where Paddy desperately signalled to the rest of the team to continue their landing and then as now a sudden bank of cloud and fog obscuring the night sky.
Unlike Paddy, I did not have a reception committee waiting with food and transport, and as the night was almost upon me, I had only a short time to reflect on the momentous footnote in history that had taken place here almost exactly 80 years prior. After spending the entire day hiking there, I was in the landing field for only a few minutes, taking enough photos to satisfy myself was sufficient and a video to capture the soundscape of the wind and babbling snow melt. With that, I was off, literally retracing my own footsteps back through Katharo and up onto the main road back to Kritsa and Agios Nikolaos . Only a five hour walk back to my hotel, a mere trifle!
After about half an hour, now in total darkness, a car approached from behind and came to a halt next to me. The occupants, four kindly looking Greek women, enquired if I was ok, if I was lost and if I needed help getting back to town, in much the same tone and manner someone would speak to a small child alone in a shopping centre. While I was grateful and moved by their offer, I was, at that point, determined to get “the full experience” as it were and complete as much of the journey on foot. It took a great deal of persuasion to convince them that I was fine and was perfectly happy to walk back into town, and they reluctantly set off without me.
A short while later, perhaps an hour after leaving the landing zone, I again heard the sound of vehicles approaching from behind and turning around, could make out the headlights of 3 cars zigzagging down the road. They quickly caught up with me and roared past, 3 of the largest 4x4s I had ever encountered. I was almost instantly bathed in the glow of brake lights as each one neatly came to a halt not far from me. Some of the occupants got out and were having a lively discussion between themselves. As with the shepherd, my Greek wasn’t quite good enough to make out exactly what they were saying, but it was obviously about me.
One of them waved me over, as though there was anything else I was going to do and asked, in perfect English, who I was and where I was staying. “Agios? No problem, we’ll take you!” This now being the third time someone had offered me a lift and most insistent about it too, I decided that this was a sign that I probably should allow the legendary Cretan hospitality to run its course and I accepted. The 4×4 was so massive I had to clamber upwards into the cabin and into the back seat, itself strewn with camping and hiking gear, my new companions/rescuers hopping into the front seats.
The man who had offered me the lift turned round and stated frankly “you must be crazy to be out here by yourself in this weather”. After flying the length of Europe and walking from dawn til dusk to find an empty cave and photograph an empty field, I couldn’t really disagree. “But” he gestured to the driver and the other vehicles, “we’re a bit crazy too”.
And so that was that. In a few minutes of white knuckle Cretan driving, I had retraced the journey that had taken me the entire day on foot (diversions to caves and caverns notwithstanding). I was back in the middle of Agios Nikolaos, bustling with Saturday evening life, almost a different world to the near deserted countryside I had spent the day exploring.
The driver kindly dropped me on a roadside and flatly refused to accept any kind of payment for helping me, insisting it was only a few minutes out of his way. With the mandatory bang on the room to indicate I was clear, he was away down a side street and gone. I made my way back to my hotel and from there to a nearby taverna for my first proper meal all day and to raise a private toast to Paddy and the other agents of the SOE who had done this for real.
Identifying how much material there is available regarding the end of the battle of Crete, from the retreat to Sphakia and evacuation of troops by the Royal Navy to SOE chasing up stragglers and those left behind. Additionally, completing my photographing of SOE reports and files to review later.
That there are extensive details, down to lists of individual soldiers, of those evacuated from Crete following the formal end of the battle! This includes those picked up by Commander Pool and HMS Torbay at Preveli, backing up some of what is described in The Fortress Crete. These include Jack Smith-Hughes and Dudley Perkins, who would later return to the island as SOE agents.
Also mentioned in The Fortress Crete is an account of several Greek soldiers having to disguise themselves as Cypriots to get a place on board, which is also attested to in these files.
Due to the volume of materials contained in the SOE reports, I was only able to browse these while making copies, but even then it became clear that SOE were involved in providing relief to survivors of reprisal massacres in addition to the usual espionage, propaganda and sabotage activities expected.
In one instance a German soldier in change of supplies was found to be stealing boots and leather to then sell on to the locals. He managed to escape into the hills before being found out and arrested.
Following the Italian armistice in September 1943, one Italian soldier sprung Cretan resistance fighters out of prison and helped them to join up with their comrades. When offered an opportunity to escape on the next boat back to Cairo, he refused unless his Cretan semi-fiancé could be allowed to escape with him!
Amongst the documents relating to the rescue of stranded Allied troops, was a note concerning the acquisition or construction of speedboats to use alongside slower, more vulnerable craft.
Just as a reminder of the nature of the war in Crete is reports by a local doctor feeding information to the Allies regarding the medical situation following the battle. Reports of massacres and atrocities committed by the occupiers are commonplace amongst SOE files, but these were particularly difficult reading. 
Also in the set of documents I was able to order was a collection of intercepted, decrypted and translated German communications. Two of which related to the kidnapping of General Kreipe by SOE. As well as giving some information on how the kidnap was reported and the timeline of events, it also mentions the letter left behind to inform the Germans that the mission was organised by the British. Now to pour through the photos of the other documents!