They made their way to the side of the boat. Lockhart looked around the deck. The captain waved a perfunctory goodbye. Cretin. Lockhart nodded back, turned and swung himself onto the scrambling rope. The dinghy was almost too packed for him and the crewman to board. Lockhart sat on an ammunition box in the stern, while his companion pushed them away with an oar. Unslinging the Sten, Lockhart steeled himself for an imminent volley of shots.

They were two hundred yards from the shore, and the crewman was rowing the heavy dinghy with great difficulty. Over his shoulder, Lockhart could see the flashlight, still flashing that exasperating four times. He gripped his gun tighter, trying to make out perhaps the shape of a German helmet, but there was nothing visible. Whoever was there was well hidden.

Lockhart looked back at the boat. They were now too far away to go back. If it was a trap, and the Germans had seen them leaving, then they would open fire. Lockhart didn’t fancy his chances sitting on a box full of hand grenades. At least he wouldn’t feel anything, he thought. No, they had to keep going in.

A cough. Not a loud one, but loud enough to carry across the smooth waters. The crewman looked startled. Just as he was about to speak, Lockhart put his finger to his lips. Lockhart squinted again—they were a hundred yards away and the cough had seemed to come from the right of the flashlight. He tried playing the sound back in his head. Had it been a German cough or a Cretan cough? Was there a difference? Lockhart knew he was clutching at straws.

With fifty yards to go, he ordered the crewman to stop rowing. As they bobbed, Lockhart noticed the flashing becoming more rapid, more insistent. The crewman looked up at him, bewildered. Lockhart scanned the beach—he began to make out three figures near the light. They didn’t appear to be wearing uniforms; their shapes looked more baggy, informal, as if wearing peasant clothes.

Lockhart gesticulated to the crewman to continue rowing. It could yet be Germans in disguise, but Lockhart was now more confident. Nevertheless, he leveled his Sten gun at the three figures, waiting for a suspicious move. If that happened, he would open fire. There would be no indecision. The SOE training school at Arisaig had taught him to use weapons as part of his body, and to react without a pause.

“Hurry up, John!”

The crewman stopped rowing. It had come from one of the shapes, now only thirty or so yards away. Lockhart broke out into a big smile. It was that hairy brute Manoli! He looked at the crewman, who had shut his eyes in relief.

“Come on, keep rowing,” whispered Lockhart. “There’s a glass of raki for you when we get this lot off.”

“What the hell is raki?”