Dig Two Graves: Revenge or Honor (5 page)

“OK, bury the chutes and let’s get the hell out of here. We head north by east. We’ve a long way to go, a lot of gear to carry, and we’re going to be late for that rendezvous with the Andartes. Get the men moving, sergeant. Oh, and men … damn glad you all made it.”

Seven men were staggered twenty feet apart, alternating on either side of the dirt track. It was tough going on uneven ground in the dark and with much more than twice their usual load.

A few twisted trees, mostly cypress or juniper and a scattering of stunted shrubs, dotted the rocky terrain. Passing through this dismal moonscape, their gloom deepened with every step.

The cool air, laden with earthy scents, did nothing to overcome their anxiety. The uphill grade and the loose talus under foot worked on their legs, but they were all in peak physical condition. Months of grueling training were paying off. They took short breaks every 45 minutes, but now, with sunrise approaching, they pressed on in the predawn to get to the cover of a large rock outcrop at the base of a series of low hills. Each man had been silent, lost in his own thoughts, counting his blessings, and wondering what lay ahead. None of them noticed the pervasive fragrance of night jasmine and thyme on first light’s breeze. To the east, the sunlight emerging from the distant hills slowly overtook the purple predawn. It was time to take cover and plan.

Clambering up the rocks at the foot of a group of low hills, the group found a concealed, defensible position and settled down for some rest.

“L-T we covered a lot of ground, but we’re gunna have a tough time findin’ them resistance guys.” Zabt let out a loud, tired breath as he dropped down on the rocky ground next to Pantheras.

“I know. Don’t see much choice but to get some food, rest a couple hours, and then press on in daylight. We have to risk it.”

Just as Zabt was going to reply, Sergeant Darrian Megolos called out.

“Aha, Sarge, L-T I think I found something,” Darrian called in a half whisper.

Zabt and Pantheras rose from their concealed position and were surprised to see a bearded man standing over them on the rocks. There, part pirate, part ancient Greek apparition, stood a broad-shouldered, six-foot giant of a man glaring down at them from the rocks with a face as dark as a thunder cloud.

He wore a rough, tan tunic; black leather vest; dark, loose trousers; and scuffed black boots. A stub of an unlit cheroot hung from his lips, nearly lost in his bushy, unkempt beard. A squared German winter forage cap attempted, unsuccessfully, to tame his thick curly hair. A pair of bandoliers crossed his chest. He had two Lugers holstered at his waist, German binoculars around his neck, and a Mauser slung on his left shoulder. He held a British 9 mm Sten gun leveled at the Americans. Disturbing as it was to be so easily surprised, it was the man’s icy stare that shook them. Pantheras was even more worried about where the Sten was pointing, right at the center of his chest.

“Englezos?” the mountain pirate growled, staring straight at John.

Pantheras looked at Zabt then back at the bearded mountain standing over them and shook his head.

“American, not English,” Pantheras, said in Greek, pointing to the American flag on his shoulder. “You are Andartes?”

“I not like the English, they give too much orders,” the rough character said, his intentions still unclear and his weapon still pointed right at Pantheras.

“You Americans easy to follow, you make much noise when you walk and don’t look round. You must learn about these things.”

The hill pirate’s Sten gun suddenly dropped, only to be caught by its leather sling, as the apparition nimbly jumped down from the rocks.

“Welcome to Greece, my friends. Sorry I could not be there to greet you when you came from the sky. You dropped in so unexpectedly. I am Christos Stavros,” the big man said as he sprang lightly from the rocks. “I personally lead a band fighting the Germans. With my own hands, I kill thirty Germans and twenty more those Greek traitor scum.” He spit on the ground to show his disdain. “I am the one sent to meet you.”

“I’m Lt. John Pantheras,” John said, extending his hand as the Andartes leader approached him. “May I call you Christos?”

“Yes, but,” looking at each American, “we must leave here quickly.” Christos said, taking John’s hand with both of his, in an iron grip. Looking around at the other Americans, he said, “The Germans are looking for you in trucks and with machines in the air, airplanes. They do not usually fly at night, but last night for you, they make exception.

They must want you very much to go to so much trouble,” Christos said. “Here, refresh yourself with this,” he said, tossing a wineskin to the nearest man. “It is krasi. Drink and let’s go.”

The Americans each took a swallow of krasi, a rough red wine diluted with water, and prepared to move out, this time with Christos in the lead. Christos, leading two donkeys that carried the American’s heavy equipment, set a fast pace through the low wills.

“How far is it to your camp?” John asked as he caught up with Christos.

“Better to not talk now. We can be heard far away,” Christos replied as he picked up the pace.

After nearly an hour’s hard trek, Christos stopped abruptly. Pantheras raised his right fist to signal a halt and went to one knee while he watched the experienced guerilla fighter. He appeared to be listening. Pantheras glanced around him, concentrating, but heard nothing.

They had stopped midway between two groups of rocky outcrops above a small stream. Pantheras didn’t like the exposed position when cover in the hills was only yards away.

Turning to Pantheras, Christos said in a whisper, “Germans coming from that way,” and pointed toward the distant stream.

“I don’t see anything,” Pantheras said.

“Smell. Their tobacco is in the air. They will be here soon,” replied Christos.

“How long?” Pantheras said.

Christos shrugged, “One, two cigarettes, no more,” Christos replied.

Pantheras knew the resistance fighters figured time by how long it took to smoke a cigarette. They were often way off, but one cigarette wasn’t long, maybe eight minutes. Pantheras assessed their position and chances of taking out an enemy unit of unknown size. From the direction of their approach, it was clear the German patrol was avoiding the hills.

Giving the circle up signal, Pantheras got the men together. He pointed out the advantages of their position, the two sets of hills, the rise, and a choke point where the two hills nearly came together.

“A kraut patrol is about to come over that rise,” he said, pointing to his right. “We’ll set an L-shaped ambush there,” the lieutenant said, pointing to the gap between the hills only twenty yards away.

Pantheras said, “Chris, Nick, Gus, take positions inside that next set of hills. Spread out and keep under cover. Chris, take the center position where that BAR will do the most good. Costos, Darrian, and George you take positions in those rocks there,” Pointing to an outcropping at a right angle, and about twenty yards from where the first group would hide.

“Christos, you and I will be over there,” he said pointing to some rocks to the left of the rise’s crest. “Hold your fire until Christos and I slam the back door shut. If it works right, they’ll have nowhere to go. Remember to watch your fields of fire. Pick specific targets. Keep quiet and out of sight until it starts. It’ll be fast and effective, we hope. Any questions?” Pantheras said.

The men exchanged nervous grins. 

“All right, pick your positions, stay out of sight and good luck,” Pantheras said.

The men took off running to find their hiding places. Pantheras picked his way through the loose scree and some of the low boulders. When he found a spot where he could see the trail, he wedged himself into an opening.

He had room to move into a concealed firing position and to duck down completely out of sight. Settling his breathing, Pantheras eased back the charging handle on the side of his Thompson and flipped the selector switch to full auto. He opened the covers on his magazine carriers and removed three extra thirty-round magazines that he placed on the rocks overlooking the trail. Finally set, he peered over the rocks in time to see George Zabt disappear behind his place of concealment. All the other men were out of sight. He looked over to Christos, who signaled for him to get down. There, in front of him he could see the German patrol’s point man coming up to the crest of the rise. The man carefully picked his way along the trail. He looked from side to side, stopped briefly to listen, and then moved on. He was cautious but failed to detect the ambush ahead of him. Pantheras slipped down into his hole to wait. He hoped the German soldier couldn’t hear his pounding heart or smell his fear. Soon, the unmistakable odor of cigarettes wafted over him followed by muffled voices, and the sound of walking men. The patrol was right in front of him.

Pantheras was beginning to wonder how long to wait when a pebble landed in his lap from Christos’ direction. Pantheras crept out of his hide and saw the last man in the patrol had passed his position.

There appeared to be about twenty-five men in the party and they had walked right into the trap. He looked over at Christos and saw him wearing a broad smile, his Sten gun at the ready. Pantheras nodded to the Andartes leader, who nodded back. He rose from concealment, drew a bead on the last man in the patrol, and pulled the trigger. The Thompson ripped a jagged line of holes in the man’s back, and he fell dead. With Pantheras’ shot as a signal, withering gunfire erupted from the seven other men. Pantheras heard the expended shells ping off the rocks. Hot casings rebounded to sting his face and hands. The smell of cordite was overwhelming in the enclosed space but he kept firing. He reloaded twice and kept firing. Attacked from three sides at once, the German patrol was devastated in an instant. Three of the Germans tried to return fire but had no chance. Their bodies fell in slow motion, dead before they hit the rocky ground. Operational Group 14’s first action had been swift, effective, and very deadly. Grey-clad lumps littered the ground as the roar of the gunfire died away.

Pantheras heard Christos emerging from his place of concealment and crawled out of his own hole. He looked over at the big Greek, who was still wearing his broad grin, and gave him a nod.

“George, everyone all right over there?” Pantheras called out.

“OK L-T,” Zabt replied. He waved as he and his men broke cover.

“Gus, head count,” Pantheras called out, as the second group came out of hiding.

“Fine here, L-T,” Kasseris replied and waved.

Christos and Pantheras emerged from cover together, and, with the other men, began the task of assuring the Germans were all dead. The eight of them had decimated twenty-five Germans. None of the Americans or Christos had a scratch. Pantheras wondered how long such luck could last.

“Hide the bodies in the rocks,” Christos said, “so the airplanes will not see them. Take their ammunition, food, and water.”

The Americans stripped the dead of any usable supplies. Christos took two pairs of boots. “Two of my men can use these,” he said.

The men checked weapons, divvied up the German supplies, and were on their way again within twenty minutes.

“You make good ambush, John. Where did you learn this?” Christos said as the men regained the rocky trail.

“I learned it in Italy. I was on the receiving end.” John replied as he walked past Christos.

Two days’ hard march brought them to the Edessa hills and the Andartes camp. They were in Northeastern Greece, between the village of Pella and the city of Thessaloniki. Christos led a group of about thirty men, but like volunteer units everywhere, the numbers and composition were constantly changing. The ten-man core of the band came from villages the Germans had burned, and their hatred of their enemy simmered just below the surface. Most of them were big, burly men like Christos. Their facial features, like their leaders’, were lost under thick, bushy beards that accented their bright dark eyes.

The Greeks were surely descendents of ancient Greek gods or some race of mountain men. These men were strong, resourceful, and fearless. Their abilities quickly impressed the Americans. On hikes, they set a blistering pace all day long. They could keep up that murderous tempo both uphill and down and not so much as draw a deep breath.

They could shoot a running rabbit at three hundred yards ten out of ten times. But their most amazing skill was scrounging. These men could steal anything. When two of Christos’s men came into camp with a case of German hand grenades, John could contain himself no longer.

“Christos how do your men do this? The Germans don’t just leave this stuff out loose.”

“My people have always lived in these hills. The soil is poor. There is not much rain. We keep sheep, and goats, grow a little grain, and make cheese, but at times, we need more. To live in the hills is to know a hard life,” Christos said.

“Yes but …”

“Thievery is an old tradition. The men of one village take from the men of another village. We don’t steal a man’s wife, well sometimes, and we don’t steal from widows or children, but we share what we have. If a man has but two grains of wheat, he will share one of them.”

“But stealing from the Germans is dangerous,” John said.

“No more dangerous than stealing from the Turks as my father and grandfather did, or before them the Byzantines or the Romans before them. It has always been so here,” Christos said, showing his broad smile. “We take what we need. Sometimes we are caught, but not often.”

Christos helped Pantheras select a suitable base of operations. Their hideout was perfectly suited to guerilla tactics against the Germans. The Andartes camp was about six miles away. The Americans, with Christos’ men as guides, quickly learned where the local villages were, which ones were friendly, and which ones housed the collaborators. The seven Americans were joined by an ever changing cavalcade of Andartes in their hit and run missions. Their camp was rough, but the men made the best of it. They could see for miles in any direction, and observe three major roads and two rail lines from their hill. They had escape routes down well-worn trails in every direction, and there were sizable caves in the hillsides that provided cover from the occasional German air reconnaissance.

Lt. John Pantheras lead a dozen operations in the weeks following their entry to Greece, with, and without the help of the Andartes. The Americans ambushed convoys, mined roads, blew up bridges, and most recently had destroyed a vehicle marshalling yard and fuel dump. They had suffered only three minor wounds, and no casualties. It was an enviable record. Their success was beginning to garner more cooperation from the Andartes, who were coming to respect the Americans. Unfortunately, they were also drawing the attention of the Germans who had at first thought the Andartes had carried out the raids, but were now suspicious there was a foreign force in the area. German air recon was becoming more frequent.

Lt. Pantheras leaned back in the shade of the hill looking over his latest After Action Report. The Germans needed transport for their impending withdrawal from Greece. The men had destroyed more than two hundred vehicles, trucks, tanks, and half-tracks in their marshaling yard. The fuel depot had six huge 10,000-liter storage tanks. A couple of satchel charges at the base of each tank had created quite a fire. The burning fuel had incinerated row after row of neatly parked vehicles. They’d watched the columns of black smoke from miles away for nearly five days. Twelve times at bat had resulted in twelve home runs. Pantheras smiled at the thought, but inwardly worried their luck could be running thin. They’d experienced a few minor wounds but, fortunately, nothing serious except for their losses the night of their jump. Two of the men were experiencing chills, and Pantheras thought it could be malaria, but the men were in good spirits.

“You finish them reports L-T? Remember, the job ain’t through till the paperwork’s done,” Staff Sergeant George Zabt chided as he crunched his way up the trail toward his commanding officer.

Discipline was intentionally loose among the men of Operational Group or OG 14. They’d developed into a solid unit with Staff Sergeant Zabt, Sergeants Nick Sanna, Chris Raptis, Costos Spiros, Darrian Megolos, Technical Sergeants Gus Kasseris, and Lieutenant Pantheras. The unit full of sergeants was the result of the casualties they’d experienced the night of their jump, but it worked. The small unit was cohesive, dedicated, but informal. Behind the lines, guerilla fighting took teamwork and nerves of iron. Pantheras respected the men under him too much to presume he had all the answers.