A New Kind of War (5 page)

But Audley was waving and beckoning at them. And the real mercy now was that Audley’s business was none of his business, even if Kyri wanted him to think about it.

He waved back, suddenly light-hearted. Because the
real
mercy, now that he thought about it, was that Audley’s business hadn’t been the accidental death of them back there on the hillside. ‘Hullo there!’

He jumped down on to the track, quickly composing his happy lack of responsibility into a straight serious face. Young Mr Audley’s problems (no doubt relating to his ‘business’, whatever it was) rated a little sympathy, but no more than that. Every junior officer had his problems—so what? ‘Ready to go?’

‘You took your time, Captain Fat-O’Rhiney.’ Audley looked past him.

Cheeky! ‘You seemed rather busy. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘What was all the conversation about?’

But observant as well as cheeky. So it might be as well to approach the question truthfully. ‘Captain Michaelides was interrogating me about you—how you knew who I was … Or, at least, how you were prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt because you know Matthew, anyway.’

‘Oh yes?’ The look was still directed past him, as Kyriakos arrived in the midst of a small avalanche. ‘I was rather trusting, wasn’t I?’ Audley opened his mouth. ‘C-Captain … M-M—’

‘Kyri, my friends call me, David Audley.’ Kyriakos came to the young man’s rescue quickly. ‘And you definitely qualify as a friend, I think.’

‘Kyri-Kyriakos—that’s not very friendly!’ Each time Audley stumbled the words came out on the double. That’s as bad as
M-M-Michaelides
, damn it!‘ He took the third M with a supreme effort. ’But … g-get into the jeep anyway. Otherwise, my commanding officer will have my g-guts for …
garters
—
right?‘

It was pathetic how the stutter seemed to feed on itself, as the young man’s nervousness increased with each failure. But, once again, Fred found his sympathy strictly limited.

‘Go!’ Audley addressed his driver peremptorily. ‘Get in—get in!’ Then he saw the Vickers-Berthier gunner, who was still in the jeep. ‘Get out, Len! G-go and get in the front, there’s a g-good chap—right?’

The machine-gunner’s face was a perfect picture, although perfectly expressionless, as he conceded his place to Captain Michaelides.

‘“Garters” … “David”, is it?’ Kyriakos was suddenly his most charming self. “ ‘Kyri”—?’

‘“Kyri”?’ Audley took the abbreviation almost with surprise and then blinked at Fred. ‘You know, I don’t
really
stutter. It’s a purely t-temporary thing, which will go away eventually … like a head-cold, or a sprained ankle. I have that on the very best authority—a specialist who s-s-sp-sp …
specializes
in s-s-s
impediments
of s-s-s—
shit!’
He sniffed. ‘He says it’ll go away when I’m no longer scared out of my wits, anyway.’ Another sniff. ‘Which is probably true, because I acquired it that way, one sunny afternoon. And it comes and goes quite without rhyme or reason.’ He nodded at Fred. ‘My c-commanding officer … will no doubt be waiting in eager anticipation to see what I have found … even though he’ll not be in the best of tempers.’ Audley spoke carefully as the jeep bucked over a succession of pot-holes. ‘See how I didn’t stutter, Fred? Fred-Fred-Fred—
Fred.’
Shrug. ‘Like I s-s—
told
you: no rhyme or r-reason, it just comes and goes … Not like a chap I knew at school, who developed his
s-s-s-impediment
solely to hide his inadequacy in Latin word-endings, to give him extra time.’ Grin. ‘Like, “
Quieta G-G-Gallia, C-C-Caesar, ut c-c-con-s-s-stit-t-tit-tit
…
”—Used to drive the masters crazy, I tell you!’ Wider grin. ‘Must confess I do use the same w-wheeze on my betters on occasion, when I’m up against it … like now, eh?’ The grin was transferred through the next succession of bumps, to Kyriakos, but vanished in that instant. ‘So what were you
really
doing on that path, Captain M-M—I beg your pardon—
Kyriakos
?’

‘I told you—’ Fred started to cut in hotly, but then remembered what Kyriakos had said about the lieutenant, and controlled his irritation. ‘But I told you … “David”, is it? We were going to the village, David.’

Audley grimaced at him. ‘The broken-down jeep, and all that?’

‘Yes.’ Kyriakos’s insight continued to warn Fred, against his inclination. ‘The broken-down jeep and all that. Osios Konstandinos is the closest place to where we broke down. Captain Michaelides was hoping to commandeer transport there. And if you care to send one of your storm-troopers to the main road, our jeep should still be there … if the locals haven’t found it.’ Anger, once it started to cool, froze quickly. ‘And even if they have, ’ then you’ll still find the heavier bits of it, maybe.‘

‘Of course—of course!’ Audley rallied. ‘W-what I meant was … by
that
route—that
particular
one, I mean.’ He managed the travesty of a politely-inquiring smile.

‘Ah—yes of course!’ Kyriakos moved smoothly into the next moment’s silence, turning towards Fred as he did so. ‘What David means is that the path is not very evidently a promising route to Osios Konstandinos, old boy.’ He shook his head encouragingly. ‘You remember where we left the track, up the steep incline? “Where are we going?” you said. And I replied, “By the shortest route—and on the other side it is even shorter: it is down a cliff, with steps cut into it”—do you remember?’

Fred nodded. ‘Yes—’ All Kyriakos had said was ‘
This way
!’ And he hadn’t waited for an answer. But no matter. ‘Yes?’

‘This is my country—my “neck of the woods” yes?’

Kyriakos switched back to Audley, his voice all casual friendliness. ‘You see, my family has a house by the sea, beyond Itea—by Galaxdhion, where my grandmother was born … After Delphi we were going on there, to celebrate Scobiemas Day, David.’ He rolled with the potholes, while waving his finger at Audley. ‘But … but what
I
would like to know … is … is how
you
know the secret back-path from Osios Konstandinos, up the steps in the cliff—?’ The finger and the voice flattered Audley simultaneously. ‘Do you speak our language? Or our ancient language, perhaps?’

‘No.’ Audley was falling for it, flattered by the implied admiration. ‘I’m not a classicist. “A little Latin—and no Greek” is me, I’m ashamed to admit. Or … not ashamed … But —’

‘Wouldn’t have done you any good, old boy!’ Kyriakos shook his head, sure of his man now. ‘No one in Osios Konstandinos would have told a stranger about that path—not a khaki stranger any more than a field-grey Jerry: Winston Churchill or Adolf Hitler—or Archbishop Damaskinos himself … my wet-nurse was a girl from Osios Konstandinos, that is how
I
know … ’ The black eye-brows furrowed, perfecting the flattery with incomprehension. ‘So how do
you
know?’

‘Oh … that’s easy—that’s … nothing at all, actually.’ The young man was at once smugly pleased and disarmed by such implicit praise. ‘It’s all in the history books, don’t you know … I mean.’

‘In the
what?’
Something in the Greek’s voice tore Fred’s attention away from Audley.

‘In the history books … or
book
, actually—Pember-ton’s
History of the Greek War of Independence
—
’
A pothole caught Audley unaware as he was trying to be properly modest ‘—I looked up “Osios Konstandinos” in the British Library in Athens when I learnt where we were going. And … I was rather hoping there’d be something here from the thirteenth century. But there wasn’t—’ The jeep swerved, presenting Fred himself with a momentary glimpse of the Gulf of Corinth, purple flecked with red in the sunset, before a bank of pine-trees cut it off ‘—not a mention.’

‘The thirteenth century?’ Kyri’s tone was incredulous.

‘Yes.’ Audley missed the change in tone. ‘After the Fourth Crusade, when this was all Frankish territory—lots of jolly little feudal principalities, and duchies and counties.’ He nodded enthusiastically at Fred. ‘There really was a “Duke of Athens” then, like in Shakespeare, d’you know? There’s a couple of pages on it in Pemberton’s introductory chapter. And there are still quite a few Frankish castles … mostly pretty ruined. But they say there’s an absolutely
super
one at Chlemoutsi, built by Geoffrey de Villehardouin. If I can screw some leave out of the adjutant I’m going to make a study of them. Being here is a chance absolutely not to be missed.’

‘Yes?’ Fred was aware that he shared Kyri’s incredulity now, and not least because he too had appreciated the Greek chance he had been given at His Majesty’s expense. Only here was this beardless youth, with all the glory of ancient Greece within his grasp, from the Parthenon to Delphi, and from Olympia to Agamemnon’s Mycenae, enthusing over the crude work of some gang of medieval bandits. ‘Yes?’

‘Of course! Yes, indeed!’ Kyriakos echoed the youth’s enthusiasm, serious and straight-faced. ‘And there is the Frankish cathedral in Athens—that is most interesting.’

‘Is it?’ Audley frowned. “I haven’t seen that. Where is it?‘

‘Oh … it is much damaged by artillery fire.’ The Greek’s face was suddenly expressionless.

‘Not our guns, I hope?’ The thought of British 25-pounders hammering Frankish thirteenth-century work scandalized Audley. ‘I know that Ibrahim Pasha knocked a hugh breach in the castle at Chlemoutsi in 1825—damn the Turks!’

‘You are an historian?’ Kyriakos gave the youth his widest grin. ‘That is obvious, of course.’

‘Well … not yet, actually.’ The youth squirmed. ‘But I’ve got a place at Cambridge … That is, if God and the army don’t mess things up between them, don’t you know?’ He returned the grin. ‘Your English is jolly good, I must say, Captain—
Kyriakos
, I mean.’ Then he blinked. ‘I mean … “an” historian—’ Then suddenly he seemed to remember where he was, flashing a quick bright glance at Fred. ‘How did you two come to meet each other, exactly?’

‘Ah! That would be telling!’ Kyriakos rolled a warning eye at Fred before he came back to Audley. ‘But
you
were just about to tell us how you knew about the secret path—the back door to Osios Konstandinos—eh?’

‘Oh—yes! It’s all in Pemberton, you see.’ Audley was quite disarmed now. ‘The Turks razed the village in the Greek War of Independence—1824, that was … Reshid Pasha had got wind that Markos Botsaris was there, apparently.’ The youth’s grin twisted. ‘It’s like history repeating itself, you might say—’ He caught his tongue, and the grin became a grimace as he realized what he had said. ‘But with us as the Turks, you see.’

‘Ah—Reshid Pasha!’ Kyriakos glossed over Audley’s indiscretion quickly. ‘He was moving against Missolonghi hereabouts in 1824, wasn’t he? And against your Lord Byron—he was there at the time, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Audley seized Lord Byron eagerly. ‘It was Byron and Markos Botsaris who were g-g-galvanizing the Missolonghi defenders in ’24. And Reshid aimed to trap Botsaris in Osios Konstandinos, by coming in from the sea—‘ He swung round in his seat, as Osios Konstandinos surrounded them.

It was just another Greek village, which looked as though it had been sacked and rebuilt at regular intervals, all the way from the Peleponnesian War through a hundred other wars, including Audley’s Franks and Turks, and Kyriakos’s Turks and Germans, so that it was now a jumble of infinitely re-used stone, half a dusty ruin and half a triumph of man over man’s inhumanity.

‘Here at last, by God!’ Audley pointed ahead for the benefit of his driver, of whom he had not taken the slightest notice since commanding him to get going, five uncomfortable miles back. ‘Go on past the square, as far as you can, there’s a good fellow.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The driver sounded weary enough to have served in all those ancient wars. ‘I know where to go, sir.’

‘You were saying—?’ Kyriakos encouraged the youth. ‘Botsaris—?’

‘Yes.’ He gave Kyriakos a quick frown, as though he had at last realized that he’d been manoeuvred into answering most of the questions, instead of asking them. ‘But you know the story. So why am I telling it?’

‘Captain Fattorini doesn’t know it though.’ The Greek was ready for him.

‘Well, you tell him, then.’ The youth’s suspicions were clearly roused at last. ‘After you’ve answered my last question, that is.’

‘Your last question?’ Kyriakos echoed the words innocently. ‘What was it?’

The squalid houses on each side of them all seemed to be empty, staring at them with blank eyes. But, of course, they weren’t empty. And they reminded Fred depressingly of Italy. And yet, Italy, at least, was where the real war was: in Italy, at least, a man knew which side he was on.

‘You wanted to know how we had met.’ He felt his patience snap. ‘I don’t see what the devil that has to do with you, though.’

As Audley started to stutter a reply they came out of the narrow street into what must be the village square. One half of it had been comprehensively demolished, and the other half was full of British military vehicles. A line of sullen-looking prisoners, some in the ragged remains of British battle-dress, was backed up against the wall of another of those tiny Byzantine-Greek churches, which looked as though it had been built for a race of midgets. At each end of the line a bored British soldier covered the prisoners with his Sten.

‘Go on—go on!’ Audley pointed ahead, towards the only unblocked exit, the sudden harshness of his voice hinting that he found this tableau of Liberated Greece no less depressing.

The jeep accelerated, jerking them all this way and that as it bumped over the ruined road-surface. Fred caught a glimpse of a group of soldiers between two of the lorries, one in the act of trying to light a dog-end without burning his nose, another urinating on the rear wheel of his lorry. The urinator had full corporal’s stripes on his arm.

Discipline was going to hell!
thought Fred: those, for a guess, were Royal Mendips of 12 Brigade, who had been notably reliable in Italy. But now they looked sullen and mutinous.