Authors: Leon Uris
“Not a word to anyone but Colonel Potter.”
“Yes, sir.”
The medic left.
The rest would be quite simple, Mike thought. He’d explain the entire story to Colonel Potter. He had the papers and his own passport to authenticate everything. It was, after all, British responsibility. They would be obligated to escort him back to Athens or arrange a flight out.
Several moments passed. Mike stared out of the window and watched the new troops board. Poor devils, he thought. At least he’d be out of Greece soon....
As the last unit boarded the train one of the men attracted his attention. He didn’t know why, but Mike found himself staring at a short man wearing large horn-rimmed glasses. Perhaps he looked so much out of place in the company of soldiers. The man couldn’t have been much over five feet tall and his uniform literally hung on him. Another peculiarity—the little man carried none of the paraphernalia of soldiers. There was only an outsized pistol strapped to his waist. He certainly seemed no part of an army. Mike’s curiosity gave way to uneasiness.
Something about him—something about him...What was it? Yes...Yes, he was standing in the guard shack at the airdrome. The sentry said something, something about a man who was looking for him. A little man with horn-rimmed glasses. The sentry had given a name but Mike couldn’t remember it.
The little man boarded the train.
Mike tried to reason with himself. He was still jumpy, that’s all. No—no—he wasn’t jumpy. Stergiou’s office—the voice that spoke to him from the shadows... The man with the walrus mustache, Howe-Wilken, his voice had whispered, “They have friends, everywhere.... They’ll get you, Morrison.”
The train jerked into motion.
The door opened. Mike looked up with a start. It was the medic.
“Major Howe-Wilken.”
“Yes.”
“Colonel Potter will see you, sir. The Colonel is in the fourth car forward, third compartment.”
Mike stumbled into the aisle as the train lurched around a bend. He hung onto the hand rail and moved down the car past the compartments of wounded soldiers. One thought: get off the train—get off it!
He reached the end of the car and pulled at the door. It was stuck tight. He tugged hard again and it opened. A blast of air greeted him as he stepped onto the platform. He gripped the rail and braced himself to jump. The ground tore past him with terrifying speed. No, it would be suicide.
Mike looked about. Maybe—maybe, with luck, he could reach Colonel Potter.
He stepped forward to the next platform and peered through the door window. The car had no compartments. It was jammed with soldiers. Good luck.
Mike opened the door and looked about cautiously. He scanned every face in the car as he moved ahead slowly, stepping over the packs and rifles that blocked the aisle.
End of the car.
He crossed the platform to the next car. Palestinians. Down the aisle he worked, then crossed to the next car.
Colonel Potter was in the next car up. Mike was coming closer and closer to his deliverance.
He stopped dead in his tracks. Leaning against the door, blocking it, stood a man. The man’s icy blue eyes were on Mike. He was tall and blond and wore a New Zealand uniform. The man in the bar who called himself Jack Mosley.
Mike felt for the pistol. It was gone!
The two glared at one another. Mosley dropped his cigarette, stepped on it and moved toward Mike.
Morrison spun about and shot through the car, onto the platform and through the carload of Palestinians.
Through the next car—and the next.
When he reached the jammed door of his own car he forced his shoulder against it until it finally burst open.
He halted his flight midway up the aisle. The door to his compartment was open. In the reflection of the glass he could see the little man with horn-rimmed glasses.
“You say he was here!”
“Yes, sir,” Mike heard the medic answer.
“Where did he go?”
“Forward, sir, to Colonel Potter—three cars down.”
“I’ve got to reach him first.”
Mike ducked into a compartment where two wounded soldiers lay. The little man in the horn-rimmed glasses rushed past.
Mike jumped out into the aisle and began to race back. “They’ll get you, Morrison. They’ll get you.... They’ll get you...”
He reached the rear platform—the end of the train. A blur of olive trees, and the ribbons of steel shooting out under the wheels and disappearing on the horizon.
Mike looked through the glass. The tall New Zealander was entering the opposite end of the car. There was a pistol in his hand. He walked slowly, looking into each compartment. He raised his eyes toward the rear platform, raised the pistol and made for it.
EIGHT
C
LICKETY CLACK—CLICKETY CLACK
—clickety clack...
Michael Morrison balanced himself on the edge of the step. The ground tore past him.
Clickety clack—clickety clack—clickety clack...
He eased back to the platform and crouched beside the door, poised to spring on Mosley the instant the door opened.
The train screeched to a sudden stop and Mike’s feet flew out from under him.
The sound from the sky—he knew it now—Stukas!
Little black specks circled overhead and began to take form as they dropped lower.
Mike leaped from the platform and rolled down the siding. Behind him men poured from the train, from the platform, through the windows...
The motors in the sky were suddenly still. A second passed—two—three...
The scream—the hideous scream as the bombs fell to earth. Mike covered his head.... The ground rumbled and split under the impact of the bombardment.
The first volley fell wide of the train. Everyone was up and running madly over the field toward a grove of olive trees. They fell and clawed at the earth as the Stukas came in for a second pass.
Over his shoulder Mike saw the third car disintegrate. The line of cars went into a snake dance. The engine skittered off the track and rolled down the rail bed, snorting and hissing.
Mike tumbled in at the edge of the olive grove. Soldiers poured in all about him and fell flat and lay motionless.
The Stukas turned from the destroyed train and began to blast the soldiers in the field who were scurrying like frightened ants. The planes cut them down like blades of grass then roared in on the olive grove at tree-top level. Their wings spit little gusts of fire and the trees whined and ricocheted bullets. A soldier shrieked, then lay very still.
“Here they come again!”
“Bloody bastards!”
They swept in so low that Mike could make out the face of one of the pilots. A soldier near him kneeled and fired his rifle defiantly. He shook his fist and screamed an oath. An officer ran to the soldier and jerked the rifle from his hand.
“You damned fool! Do you want them to know where we are?” the officer yelled.
“God dammit! They know where we are! What kind of a war is this...?”
The argument ended as a hail of bullets ripped the earth around them.
On and on, wave after wave worked over the grove without mercy or respite. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes... Streaking tracers, thundering motors
Then, their bombs gone, their machine guns empty, the Stukas ended their sport and flew off.
It was deathly silent in the grove. The men were too stunned to budge. Mike sat up and dropped his head on his knees. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered as the last motor faded from hearing.
After a while a slow movement started. Soldiers walked in dazed circles and spoke in shaky whispers. In another five minutes the grove was a bedlam of men running and shouting.
Someone tapped Mike on his shoulder.
A young Australian captain stood over him. “You there, get over there.” He pointed to a unit of men forming outside the grove.
Mike wobbled to his feet. “Colonel Potter—where is he?”
“The Colonel’s been hit,” the captain said.
“I want to speak to the next in command.” He dug into his pockets for the credential. It was missing. Mike looked about. Some soldiers were staring at him. The whole place was in utter confusion. It would be useless...
“Sorry, sir,” Mike said to the captain and he joined the group of men at the edge of the grove.
Other officers were forming groups of a hundred men, regardless of former units. The Aussie captain stood before Mike’s group.
“All right, lads, pay attention,” the captain said. “With those Stukas about, we’ve got to stay in small units. No more train rides...”
Feeble laughter.
“We strike out by foot and stay together.”
“Captain, sir, where are we going?”
“That’s a top secret,” the captain lied. He wished he knew.
“If the Stukas come again, sir, may we fire back?”
It was a ridiculous question. There were but twelve Enfields in the group of a hundred men. Many more ridiculous questions were asked about water and rations. The captain seemed short on answers.
They moved out over the rails toward the foothills, marching at a murderous pace in search of refuge before the Stukas returned.
As for Michael Morrison, American tourist... He was helplessly snarled in a gang of desperate, fleeing men. It was useless for him to try to find someone in command—no one seemed to be in command. Where to go? What to do? Where to run? Where to hide?
As the afternoon wore on, Mike began to limp from the nonstop hike. He remembered feeling like this once before in his life. Those first weeks after Ellie’s death he had gone through the outward motions of living, but everything inside him had dried up and his mind had been clouded by fear and hopelessness.
The column pressed deeper and deeper into the foothills. The soldiers were weary beyond words—too weary even to gripe. The terrain became more rugged as they pushed on. When the sun dropped behind the far hills and the air had cooled, the captain decided it would be safe to take a break.
The men scattered among the rocks and brush after guzzling at a stream, despite warnings from the NCO’s.
Darkness fell on the Peloponnesus...
The soldiers fell into fitful exhausted sleep.
But Michael Morrison dared not indulge in the luxury. Through bloodshot eyes he kept vigil during the black hours. A vigil against the little man in the horn-rimmed glasses and the tall blond man who called himself Jack Mosley. Who were they? How many others were looking for him? Everyone was to be eyed with suspicion—everyone!
Mike dozed fitfully, but every whisper of a tree, every stir of a restless sleeper brought him fully awake. He mumbled to himself, snatches of poems, dialogues from his books, anything to keep himself awake....
Dawn.
The second day the group wandered aimlessly, deeper and deeper into the hills, making for the mountains.
The Stukas came and found them. The turkey shoot was on again. Seven times during the day the group was sighted and seven times they flung themselves to earth.... And each time they arose and reeled about like punch-drunk fighters and pushed on.
The unholy rape of Greece was on. Every village along the march of the retreating British Expeditionary Force was leveled to the ground.
There was no relief. The vultures in the sky hovered over them and dogged their every step. At last the young Aussie captain gave the order to halt for the day. They would move by night.
Mike kept his agonized vigil until sunset. They might be lurking behind every rock, every tree, waiting to pounce on him.
He stumbled on through the long black night. Each time he fell a nameless soldier would pull him to his feet and offer a word of encouragement. In the hours before dawn two soldiers half-dragged, half-carried him along the tortuous route.
The third day found them cowering in a lemon grove near a village, sweating out the daylight hours.
A wonderful daze enveloped Mike. He could see and he could hear but sounds seemed to come from a great distance. He could touch but he was numb to feeling. He could walk without falling but had no sense of movement. He could speak but his words were inaudible to him.
While the unit lay asleep, exhausted from the night’s march, Mike sat propped against a tree, his eyes wide open.
He cocked his head and looked down the rows of lemon trees. Sunlight filtering through the tree tops created weird shadows and the shadows flickered under a soft breeze.
A sudden glint at the edge of the grove some three hundred yards away caught his attention. Mike blinked. A reflection from some type of glass... Then he saw the outline of a man. The glint again—the man’s glasses. The figure walked slowly between two rows of trees, half in shadow, half in dancing sunlight.... A small man—a very small man—and he walked through the shadows toward the group of sleeping soldiers.
NINE
“W
HERE THE DEVIL DO
you think you’re going?” the Aussie captain said.
“Water,” Mike rasped. “I need water. Village...”
The captain was about to order him back to the grove. He studied Morrison. The bloke was in wretched condition... worse off than the rest of his troops. He carried no rations or canteen. Perhaps it would be better to let him get some food and water and freshen up. Otherwise they may have to be packing him and he’d slow the whole group down.
“Very well,” the captain said, “but be back in an hour.”
Mike headed down the path....
“Soldier!”
“Yes, sir ...”
“When you get back, you’d better get some sleep.”
“Sleep—sleep...I can’t sleep....I can’t sleep....
They won’t let me sleep....”
The Aussie captain stared after him, puzzled, as he swayed down the path to the village. Strange chap, this.
Mike stepped into a dirt square surrounded by a few dozen white stucco huts. In a moment he was engulfed by a half hundred peasants, women and little children for the most part. They all began jabbering at once, offering handshakes and back slaps of welcome.
Some kissed him. Some of the women cried.
Why do they cry for me? Don’t they know the British are beaten? Don’t they know their saviors can’t help them? Why do they cry for me? What strange people are these?