immediately protested, saying that it would be no better than murder. Weixler later claimed that he asked to speak to a senior officer, to stop the cull, but was refused. He went back to Trebes and found him briefing the troops, telling them that the job was to be done with great speed: ‘In reprisal for our comrades who had been murdered.’
The expedition set off, four lorries of members of 111 Battalion Luftlandesturme Regiment, commanded by Trebes. With him were two lieutenants, an interpreter, about twenty-five paratroopers and Weixler. En route they stopped by the corpses of more comrades. One lay on the ground, his feet caught in the canopy of his parachute; another lay on his stomach, his parachute dangling on its lines above his body. Both men had died as they hit the ground, their bodies bloated; their faces black, crawling with flies; rotting and unrecognisable. Trebes made another speech about the Greek barbarians who had dared mutilate the men.
The lorries ground into Kondomari, disgorging angry paratroopers who stormed into the houses. The terrified inhabitants were forced out at gunpoint, by soldiers screaming and shoving them along the unmade up road towards the centre of the village. A woman asked one of the soldiers what they were doing; he ignored her, motioning her to join the others. Behind her a tough-looking elderly man in black pantaloons and pale jumper limped along, leaning on his stick. The houses and streets emptied, the grassy square filled. Some sat down, others stood, talking in low voices, eyeing the soldiers disbelievingly. A group of villagers stood round Oberleutnant Trebes listening while a German interpreter told them of their crimes. Some of the soldiers retrieved a Fallschirmjäger smock with a tear in it which appeared to have been made by a knife; Trebes ordered them to blow up the house where it was found. One villager came forward and confessed to the killing; another, a young man, began to argue with the interpreter.
Then the women were separated from the men, who sat on the edge of the road, waiting. For a while nothing happened, then the men were told to stand and were marched towards some trees, among the olive groves; behind the trees was a high dry stone wall, cutting off any chance of escape. There was no question of a trial. The soldiers bearing rifles and automatic weapons formed a ragged line, some kneeling some standing. The Cretan men huddled round and to the side of a gnarled old tree. Weixler again implored Trebes to call off the executions and return to base with the man who had confessed. Trebes refused and told the women that when the men had been shot, they would have two hours to bury them. Somehow Weixler helped a few of the villagers to escape. He photographed the entire proceedings with his 3 5mm Leica. The surviving images have an aura of unreality. Clean-shaven young men in crisp white Greek shirts, black waistcoats, modern pullovers; some seemingly calm, others with arms crossed, wearing wry half-smiles; the stern, the moustachioed, the bespectacled; middle-aged men in straw summer hats; elderly men in traditional Cretan dress. Trebes shouted an order the Cretans could not understand; the soldiers raised their weapons. Another order and the quiet of the afternoon was broken by the crash of small-arms fire. Some men fell at once; others instinctively turned their backs, arms raised against the fusillade of bullets; some fell mid-flight, metres from their compatriots; none escaped. The men were reduced to a mass of corpses, huddled into each other and the ground, bodies twisted and misshapen.
The executions took about fifteen seconds. Dust hovered over the scene, kicked up by the bullets. The soldiers stopped firing, the dust slowly settled and the distraught wailing of the women filled the air, growing louder and more agonised as they tried to understand what the soldiers had just done to them. In the moments that followed Weixler photographed the bodies.
The expedition set off, four lorries of members of 111 Battalion Luftlandesturme Regiment, commanded by Trebes. With him were two lieutenants, an interpreter, about twenty-five paratroopers and Weixler. En route they stopped by the corpses of more comrades. One lay on the ground, his feet caught in the canopy of his parachute; another lay on his stomach, his parachute dangling on its lines above his body. Both men had died as they hit the ground, their bodies bloated; their faces black, crawling with flies; rotting and unrecognisable. Trebes made another speech about the Greek barbarians who had dared mutilate the men.
The lorries ground into Kondomari, disgorging angry paratroopers who stormed into the houses. The terrified inhabitants were forced out at gunpoint, by soldiers screaming and shoving them along the unmade up road towards the centre of the village. A woman asked one of the soldiers what they were doing; he ignored her, motioning her to join the others. Behind her a tough-looking elderly man in black pantaloons and pale jumper limped along, leaning on his stick. The houses and streets emptied, the grassy square filled. Some sat down, others stood, talking in low voices, eyeing the soldiers disbelievingly. A group of villagers stood round Oberleutnant Trebes listening while a German interpreter told them of their crimes. Some of the soldiers retrieved a Fallschirmjäger smock with a tear in it which appeared to have been made by a knife; Trebes ordered them to blow up the house where it was found. One villager came forward and confessed to the killing; another, a young man, began to argue with the interpreter.
Then the women were separated from the men, who sat on the edge of the road, waiting. For a while nothing happened, then the men were told to stand and were marched towards some trees, among the olive groves; behind the trees was a high dry stone wall, cutting off any chance of escape. There was no question of a trial. The soldiers bearing rifles and automatic weapons formed a ragged line, some kneeling some standing. The Cretan men huddled round and to the side of a gnarled old tree. Weixler again implored Trebes to call off the executions and return to base with the man who had confessed. Trebes refused and told the women that when the men had been shot, they would have two hours to bury them. Somehow Weixler helped a few of the villagers to escape. He photographed the entire proceedings with his 3 5mm Leica. The surviving images have an aura of unreality. Clean-shaven young men in crisp white Greek shirts, black waistcoats, modern pullovers; some seemingly calm, others with arms crossed, wearing wry half-smiles; the stern, the moustachioed, the bespectacled; middle-aged men in straw summer hats; elderly men in traditional Cretan dress. Trebes shouted an order the Cretans could not understand; the soldiers raised their weapons. Another order and the quiet of the afternoon was broken by the crash of small-arms fire. Some men fell at once; others instinctively turned their backs, arms raised against the fusillade of bullets; some fell mid-flight, metres from their compatriots; none escaped. The men were reduced to a mass of corpses, huddled into each other and the ground, bodies twisted and misshapen.
The executions took about fifteen seconds. Dust hovered over the scene, kicked up by the bullets. The soldiers stopped firing, the dust slowly settled and the distraught wailing of the women filled the air, growing louder and more agonised as they tried to understand what the soldiers had just done to them. In the moments that followed Weixler photographed the bodies.
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