The Angry Hills (6 page)

He took a kidskin of water from one of the peasants and the dryness loosened under the cool sweet taste of artesian water. It trickled down his chin and over his jacket. He poured it over his head and laughed, half-hysterically, as it revived him.

A woman shoved a loaf of bread into his hands and another gave him a cheese. He tore at the bread and stuffed it into his mouth and drank some more of the sweet water.

Another kidskin of water was given him and he looped its rope over his shoulder and stuffed his pockets with bread and cheese and thanked them all and shook their hands and kissed them.

The plane struck so fast no one heard it coming. It streaked from the sky and roared over the square, its machine guns ablaze.

A little girl of about four lay dead in the square, clutching a rag doll. She had pretty black curls and she held her doll tightly against her.

“Lynn,” Mike whispered his daughter’s name....“Lynn.”

The villagers began to edge back into the square. He could not face them. He turned and ran past the white huts onto the path.

“You there! I’ve been looking for you.”

Mike whirled around.

A Palestinian sergeant walked up the path to him. “The captain sent me for you. We’re going to push on.”

“The plane—killed a little girl....”

“I said we’re moving out.”

“Moving out? But—but it’s still daylight—the planes will find us....”

“New orders by radio. Hop to it.”

“The man,” Mike whispered, “don’t let the man get me....”

“What man?”

“The little man—the little man with the horn-rimmed glasses...”

“There is no man,” the sergeant said.

“Yes—I saw him. I saw him coming through the grove....”

The sergeant frowned. “You feeling all right, cobber? Come on now, let me help you.”

Mike fell against the sergeant. The Palestinian steadied him and helped him back to the lemon grove where the troops were griping and muttering as they struggled into their packs.

The sergeant looked at the Aussie captain and shrugged, and the captain nodded knowingly.

“Just our blooming luck.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him, sir,” the sergeant said.

“I saw him coming through the grove....” Mike mumbled.

“Steady, cobber, steady.”

They moved on.

The Palestinian sergeant stayed close to Mike and never took an eye off him. As the terrain became steeper and more rugged, Mike was alternately encouraged and prodded to keep on. When his strength gave out completely he was dragged. The Aussie captain led his weary troops toward a craggy mountain pass toward the coast. The endless day slugged on into an endless night.

“They’ll get you.... They’ll get you.... They’ll get you....”

Dawn of the fourth day brought them staggering from the mountains to the coast. They made for a beach not far from the city of Nauplion. The trek was called to a blessed halt in a woods behind the beach. Another group of a hundred men was already there and rumors flew wild.

From their hiding place they could see the town beyond the stretch of beach—what was left of the town. Once it had been the capital of a republic. A picturesque ancient fortress jutted out into the Gulf of Argolis and once the fortress had been known as the Gibraltar of Argolis. But that was once upon a time in another age and another war. In this war the Gibraltar of Argolis was a useless pile of rock against the vultures in the sky. Nauplion was bombed to the ground.

The Stukas were at it again, playing havoc, their scream overhead continuously.

The group dispersed and sprawled on the ground in weariness. Mike Morrison had reached an exhaustion beyond exhaustion. The days without sleep hung over him like the blade of a guillotine. He crawled away from the soldiers until he found a clump of thick shrubbery and he buried himself under it. He lay there, unable to move. His eyelids fell like heavy weights. He was unable to fight any longer. A deep slumber overtook him.

A beam of sunlight struck Mike’s eyes. He blinked them open and propped up on his elbows. He pushed aside a branch and saw the fading sun. He had slept most of the day.

He yawned and stretched. His whole body ached, but his mind was clear. His gradual recovery from the stupor made him aware of the physical pounding he had taken in the past few days. He eased off his shoes and discovered that his feet were a mass of blisters.

He removed the kidskin from his shoulder and took a long swallow, then splashed some water over his face. He ate some of the bread and cheese, then gently worked his shoes back onto his feet.

The woods was strangely silent. There was no one in sight. He got to his feet unsteadily.

A far-off sound of cheering and singing brought him to alert attention.

He worked his way through the trees toward the sound as it continued to grow louder and more boisterous. Mike halted at the edge of the woods. Stretched across the shallow beach he saw hundreds of men. Units had been coming through the mountains for this rendezvous all day, he thought.

The sun was sinking fast into the bay....

A ship stood offshore, blinking out a message.

Mike caught snatches of the men’s talk.

“Prince Line steamer... An eight-thousand tonner...”

“The
Slamat
....”

“We’ll evacuate as soon as it turns dark.”

“I knew the bloomin’ navy would come through...”

Michael Morrison closed his eyes and sighed. “Thank God... Thank God...”

He retreated into the woods several yards, found a hiding place and waited. Best not to take a chance. There were a thousand men milling around. Mosley and the little man would certainly be there.

The sun made a final burst into the horizon.

Mike knew he had to be cautious, but he was filled with optimism now. He’d get aboard the ship, all right, one way or another. Mosley and the little man would be watching the boats load on the shore. He’d cross them up. He’d swim out part way to the ship and have one of the boats pick him up. Mike was a strong swimmer.... In the dark Mosley and the little man would never be able to spot him from the beach. Once aboard, he’d get to the ship’s captain—it would be all over soon.

He began to think of the reunion with his children and he almost wept with excitement. Mike thought of other things too. A shave and a shampoo at Kastrup’s Barber Shop. He thought about a double filet mignon at Amilio’s and he thought of the Top of the Mark. Maybe he’d just sit up at the Top of the Mark for three or four hours and look down on the hills of San Francisco.

The clothes and other things at the Kifissia Hotel weren’t too important—insurance would cover the loss. But the pipes... Mike hated to lose his pipes. Well, no matter. He’d find some good Barlings and Petersens in London.

It was completely dark now.

Mike crept toward the water but kept a full hundred yards distance from where the troops had fallen into formations. Soon the boats would be coming to get them.

He removed his clothes and emptied the last bits of tobacco from his pouch. The pouch was waterproof. He slipped off his shoes and then went through his pockets. The passport—money—the little white envelope. Mike stuffed them into the tobacco pouch and zipped it shut. He was ready for the swim to the boat.

An hour passed.

The wave of optimism on the beach ebbed into a feeling of uneasiness. An hour later conversation was down to a feeble hum which gradually dwindled to a few suspicious whispers....

A signal light cut the darkness....

A buzz of voices grew louder and louder and advanced up the beach like a flock of hornets.

“The ship’s aground on a sand bar!”

After a while the buzzing voices stilled and the eyes of a thousand men were fixed on the water. The silence was broken only by a stray prayer....

“Break loose, dammit! Break loose!” Mike pleaded.

Through the midnight hours the thread of hope grew thinner and thinner. It became obvious even to the most obstinate that she’d never pull away from the sand bar in time to load a thousand men.

Morrison retreated to the woods again. He flung the pouch to the ground. “Son of a bitch!” He slipped into the British uniform....

No time to while away in self-pity now. There’s more than enough of that out there to take care of me, he thought. Well, for damned sure the British Expeditionary Force was in trouble—real trouble and sinking deeper into it with every minute that passed.

A move had to be made. He couldn’t go on evading Mosley or the little man indefinitely. Another day—another hour? They’d catch up with him sooner or later. And in his anger he thought of his children. He did not want Jay and Lynn orphaned and forever wondering about the mysterious and unexplained disappearance of their father.

It would be dawn soon. Mike thought feverishly. Perhaps they had given up looking for him in Athens. There was still time to reach Athens. The Greek Army and British rear guard were still holding north of the city. If he could break free from here, he could shake Mosley and the little man. He would make for Nauplion and he’d shed the uniform. From there it would take only two or three days to get to Athens. The people were friendly; they’d help him along the way.

A crack of light on the horizon heralded a new day.

“Come on, lads, back to the woods.”

Soldiers slowly began filing back to the cover of the woods, too dejected to talk.

Mike skittered away from them, dodging continuously to keep out of sight. He stopped for a moment to watch the sun rise. The ship sat out in the water, just beyond reach, as helpless as a turtle on its back. The crew was rowing frantically ashore. The light of day was accompanied by the drone of motors in the sky.

Not many minutes later the
Slamat
was blown to hell by Stukas.

Morrison saw the Aussie Captain and the Palestinian Sergeant walking in his direction. He ducked behind a tree, but he heard their voices as they passed.

“Have you heard the latest report, Sergeant?”

“What report, sir?”

“The Germans have entered Athens.”

TEN

T
HE FULL WEIGHT OF
the news crashed down on Michael Morrison. He was filled with self-pity. It was not his war, he protested silently, why should he be trapped in this thing that was not his doing?

The Germans would regroup at Athens, and a day, maybe two, would find them rampaging down the Peloponnesus. The enemy in the sky would not be the only menace now.

A motor convoy of thirty trucks came to a halt on the dirt road a quarter of a mile from the wooded area. All organization seemed to disintegrate. The soldiers poured from the woods and boarded the trucks. They needed no prodding from the NCO’s to hurry.

Mike had to make his choice quickly. It was simple... stay or go. Stay? Then what? Walk into the face of the German Army? He’d never get to Athens now. If he did—what good would it do? They’d have an airtight watch on the Embassy. They would be in command of the rail depots—the highways... They’d have every American in Athens under scrutiny....

Mike watched the soldiers scramble aboard the trucks. They pulled out one by one....

No choice but to join them. Take the ever-narrowing gamble that Mosley and the little man would not find him. Take the slim, slim chance the British might yet escape.

He hustled through the woods to a point where the road ran close. The trucks sped by. As the last truck bore down he stepped into its path and waved. The vehicle slowed enough for him to race around back. A half dozen reaching hands pulled him in.

Mike looked around quickly. Mosley and the little man were not aboard. In a moment a cloud of dust was churned up. He’d be safe—for the moment.

Near the highway junction below Nauplion the convoy joined another larger convoy. Hundreds of trucks jammed with men of the escaping B.E.F. These were men from the British, Australian and New Zealand divisions which had been in action north of Athens at the pass of Thermopylae. Outflanked, when the Greeks failed to move the majority of their army back from Albania, the British were forced to retreat below Athens. They had fought stubbornly and bravely against crushing odds from the sky and on the ground.

There were rumors that they withdrew mainly to save Greece from further ravage.

The divisions raced back into lower Greece, leaving an expendable rear guard at Corinth in hopes it could seal off German entry into the Peloponnesus while the bulk of the forces escaped.

Out of dozens of small ports and inlets in Southern Greece ships of the Royal Navy and of the British and Greek Merchant Marine worked a desperate evacuation of the fifty thousand trapped British troops. Harassed from the air and now pressed on land by the Germans, they worked to salvage their men from the doomed country. They evacuated by night, but many of the ships met the fate of the
Slamat.
Other ships escaped with their precious cargoes to Crete and to Lybia in North Africa.

A thousand rumors flew the length of the convoy. The King of Greece had escaped by flying boat.... The Greek Prime Minister had committed suicide.... The British had won a naval victory over the Italians.... The bulk of the Greek Army was captured in Albania....

Then, heartening news. Most of the B.E.F. was being successfully evacuated. There was hope!

The long convoy grew at each junction. Eventually it switched from the vulnerable main highway onto a treacherous mountain road.

The trucks rattled, twisted and snake-turned along the nearly impassable route. They alternately hovered over deep gullies, grunted up twelve-degree grades and groaned down them in low gear. The convoy was completely shrouded in choking clouds of dust. The heat of the midday sun beat through the dust.

In the swirl of events that were to become part of history’s darkest hours, a lone man, Michael Morrison, American novelist of sorts, found himself rattling in a truckload of human misery. Without identity—running...

Why was he running? He did not know. There was a reason for everything, he had told himself often. There had been a reason for his wife’s death. Through her passing he had reached maturity and stature as a writer. What was the unknown force that had hurled him into this flaming background? Perhaps some day he’d know.