The Angry Hills (7 page)

But why me? he thought. It is not my war.

But was it his war any less than the soldier’s hanging onto the tail gate for dear life? The soldier who was once a sheep rancher in New Zealand? Surely the New Zealander wonders why he is in Southern Greece....

Or was it his war any less than the young Britisher’s who hung over the side and vomited—or the big Arab’s who stood next to him?

Or was it his war any less than the little girl’s who lay in the village square clutching her rag doll?

He continued to wonder and stopped feeling sorry for himself.

Darkness enveloped the mountains.

The troops had been tossed around in the trucks to a point where they could no longer feel pain or exhaustion.

The single file of trucks crept through the towering mountains toward the sea. An endless stream of headlights winding, rising, falling. A stream that looked like pilgrims, carrying lighted candles, wending their way to the Holy Land.

Blood-curdling screams pierced the night when a truck would miss a hairpin turn and plunge its human cargo over a sheer cliff.

Many vehicles balked and broke down. The men had to roll them over the side and the trucks would clatter down a gorge and burst into flame. Cramming aboard already crammed trucks, men hung from wherever they could get a toehold.

The macabre procession rolled on....

Daybreak!

A hundred trucks smoldered in the ravines below the convoy.

The Dunkirk on Wheels came down from the mountains and stopped near the town of Kalámai on the Gulf of Messína. This was the end of the line. There was no place farther to run.

Michael Morrison saw the faces again—the faces of the Greek people. And he wondered. Kalámai, an open city, defenseless, was an ash heap.

The troops scattered through the many lemon groves near Kalámai. Overhead, hundreds of planes began to bomb and strafe every square foot of the already gutted area.

Mike flung himself to the ground. Hour upon hour the Stukas screamed and roared without letup. As the world flamed around him a sudden and deep hatred surged through him. He now knew his enemy.

Midday. The air raid continued.

A corporal wearing a British shoulder patch crawled up to Mike and shook his shoulder.

“Come on, cobber,” the corporal said. “We need some men. There’s a truckload of provisions stranded in Kalámai.”

Mike wriggled along behind the corporal. Overworked medics and doctors worked feverishly nearby on the increasing number of casualties. The corporal rounded up another ten men.

“Any news about the evacuation?”

“I heard they won’t be able to get any ships around here till tomorrow night.”

“What about the Hun?”

“Our rear guard is still holding at Corinth.”

They worked up to the edge of the grove. A truck was waiting. The men broke for the truck, jumped aboard as it raced off toward Kalámai.

The truck rolled into the square. Three Stukas spotted it immediately. The working party quickly scattered over the cobblestones as the planes tore in. In a second the truck erupted into flames.

Mike dashed across the square. Suddenly his feet flew out from under him. He had stumbled over a dead horse. He lay there for several seconds, mesmerized, looking into the animal’s eyes. They seemed to be mocking him, saying, “It isn’t my war, either.” Mike backed away from the horse and ran for a row of nearby houses. As a rack of bombs hit the square he half-threw himself down a flight of steps into a cellar.

Cowering against a wall were an old man and three women. One woman clutched a screaming infant. She tried to soothe the baby by putting her breast to its mouth, but each new bomb burst made the baby scream louder. The old man crossed himself and prayed softly. Another woman was becoming hysterical. Mike turned his eyes from the sight.

Three hours passed before the planes ceased the attack. Mike staggered from the cellar into twilight. The ashes of Kalámai smoldered. The dead horse with the mocking eyes was still lying in the town square.

Mike stumbled down the road from town. A passing truck stopped for him and drove him to a woods which ended about a mile from the sea. Here, the remains of the late British Expeditionary Force awaited evacuation.

Night brought a torrent of rain.

Michael Morrison was too tired to eat the last of his bread and cheese—or to think—or to care. He fell asleep in the mud.

ELEVEN

T
HE MORNING SUN POURED
its warmth on Mike. He rolled around in the slop, half of it caked solid on him. He dug the mud from his eyes and mouth and hair and sat up.

The troops were awake and slowly dispersing to nearby hills which would afford better protection.

Mike was prodded on by an NCO and followed the men up the slopes. On a low rise he borrowed a trench tool, scooped out a small foxhole and sat in it.

From his vantage point Mike could see an endless stretch of the bay. Directly below him nestled the town of Kalámai, close to the water, with neat lines of lemon and olive trees and vineyards, and beyond, the rocky backdrop of the mountains of the Peloponnesian range.

How peaceful it all looked from the hill! Even the planes that flew over Kalámai appeared like harmless little flies. His bread was soggy and inedible, but the cheese was still good. He ate it and drank the last of his water.

For some strange reason the vision of a dead horse and a little girl clutching her rag doll would not leave him. A chill passed through him, a strange sensation that he was on Twin Peaks looking down at San Francisco...

A nearby soldier generously offered Mike the butt of his cigarette. Mike thanked him and began to puff away.

“Hear the Germans have bridged the canal at Corinth.”

That meant the XII Army was already in lower Greece. Unless the British rear guard could pull a miracle they would have to evacuate tonight.

Mike stretched out in his foxhole and looked at the blue sky above him and thought of the dead horse in Kalámai. He thought of the whole fantastic adventure. Almost unconsciously his hand reached inside the breast pocket of the khaki tunic. He held the small white envelope up to his eyes.

He frowned as he studied it. Scrawled in Fotis Stergiou’s elegant hand, the envelope read: Sir Thomas Whitely—12 Beauchamp Place, London S.W. 3.
Kindly deliver in person.

Mike fidgeted with the envelope for several moments. He bit his lip as the impulse overwhelmed him.

He ripped the seal open and his fingers dug inside nervously. There was one small folded sheet of paper. He sat up and unfolded the sheet.

In Stergiou’s fine writing, there was a list of names and cities. The reverse side was blank.

He looked at the names listed. Obviously not Greeks—if they were, this was some type of code. Mike was a bit deflated. By this time he expected no less than some secret formula....

He read down the list of names:

Jon Petersen, Johannesburg, S.A.

Lorrie Daniels, Sydney

Elmer Jackson, Montreal

Sarah Moonstone, Montreal

Adam Piper, Montreal

David Main, Christchurch, N.Z.

And on down the list—names—cities.

Mike was burning with curiosity. Who were these people and what was the meaning of the list? Each new guess only made him the more curious. Well, one thing was certain. Whoever they were was of extreme importance to both the British and the Germans.

The people who were after these names certainly put no price on human life. If the names were found on him, he was as good as dead. What if the names were not on him? He might have a chance even if the evacuation didn’t come off. Suppose he memorized the names—it would be simple—only take a few moments...

There was another reason in back of Morrison’s mind. A reason he would not even admit to himself. The experiences of the past days had done much to knock the spirit of neutrality from his soul.

No, the hell with it, he thought. I’ll hang onto the list as long as I can and destroy it if the going gets rough. By memorizing the names I’d be committing myself.

But—if the list is destroyed it means the British will never get it.

Mike stretched out again, but the names of the people on the list would not leave him in peace. They kept rolling over and over in his mind—Jon Petersen—Lorrie Daniels—Elmer Jackson...

He sighed and wondered if he was crazy. He memorized the list, tore the paper to shreds and scattered the pieces to the wind.

The day passed without incident and as it moved toward sundown Mike knew the Stukas would leave the area. He looked over the vast expanse of water and on the horizon saw the first of many little black dots.

Ships were moving into the Bay of Messína!

The soldiers clambered from their foxholes and stared. This time there was no singing or cheering—only prayer.

Their prayers went unanswered as a frantic message bolted up the hill from mouth to mouth.

“German paratroops have landed on the outskirts of Kalámai!”

The NCO’s and the officers were up and shouting.

“Everyone with a rifle, up to the front! The rest of the troops get down on the beach!”

“Come on, lads, everyone with arms! Move up!”

“Let’s give the bloody Hun a show!”

The hills were angry!

First, in twos and threes, then in dozens and hundreds they poured toward Kalámai with murder in their hearts. Maddened, infuriated men held their rifles at fixed bayonets. Pistols, Bren guns—some with clubs

Under a bitter, unyielding offensive the Germans were driven from Kalámai.

The enemy regrouped and drove back the outnumbered British and Anzac rear guard with overwhelming force. The rear guard fell back into the town slowly, bleeding the Germans for every inch of ground. Darkness fell on the raging battle.

Destroyers and transports steamed into the Gulf of Messína and stood by, waiting to snatch their soldiers from the enemy.

Mike Morrison ran down the hillside, desperately determined to get aboard a ship and get out of Greece. When he reached the beach all semblance of discipline had broken. The unarmed men were in a frenzy to escape. Mike stood on the fringe of a howling mob two hundred yards deep and every man had but one thought.

Mike had to reach the water. He had to be there when the boats came. Behind him he could hear the sounds of battle coming closer and closer....

He hunched his shoulders and rammed into the mass of hysterical humanity. He plunged deeper and deeper into the chaos, calling on every ounce of strength he had. Flailing arms—pushing—shoving—howling men... He flung men to the right and to the left of him. A surge of pushing men forced him to his knees. He struggled to his feet and stepped over bodies being half-trampled to death. Mike began punching and kicking—fists—feet—elbows... Another tangle of arms and legs brought him crashing into the sand with the weight of twenty men atop him. He bit and clawed his way free and burst through the last yards, plunging into the water.... He arose, knee-deep in water, gasping for air. His uniform was in shreds. His face was bleeding and his hands were swelling.

Suddenly it became very still.

A British colonel stepped out into the water in front of the men. His bearing was regal, but he could not hold back the tremor in his voice. “We are prisoners of war,” he said softly.

The thread of hope had snapped!

“Keep the home fires burning,

Though our hearts are yearning,

Though the boys are far away,

They dream of home...”

Half in shock, half to bolster their spirits, the men set up a dirge-like harmony which drifted up and down the beach.

Three words drummed over and over in the minds of thousands of stunned soldiers on the outskirts of Kalámai—prisoner of war—prisoner of war—prisoner of war...

“There’s a silver lining,

Through the dark clouds shining
...
”

The glow of campfires studded the beach. Michael Morrison trembled as he sat by a campfire. He was frightened beyond any fear he had ever known. He visualized a black club smashing down on his head and men kicking at his ribs and throwing water on his unconscious body to revive him for further torture. He wanted to believe he had courage—but he was afraid.

He toyed with the idea of trying to bargain for his life in exchange for the names on the mysterious list. He tried to justify it in his mind, but he couldn’t. He knew he would never know a minute’s peace of mind for the rest of his life if he broke in cowardice before them. He chewed at his fingernails and tried to contain the queasy rise in his stomach. He dragged himself away from the campfire. He wanted to be alone with a few precious thoughts before the dawn came.

Through the long night, Mike sat withdrawn, reliving many wonderful hours in memory. He was with Ellie again on the Cal campus.... He was plunging into the Stanford line, fighting every inch of the way for the touchdown.... He held an infant in his arms.... He opened a letter which said, “We are happy to accept your novel....” Yes, there were lots of good things to remember.

The first gray light of day was breaking through the darkness. A strange and wonderful calm took possession of him. He was no longer afraid....

From the edge of the woods a tall blond man wearing a New Zealand uniform looked at Mike quietly.

The sun began to rise on the Gulf of Messína.

The tall blond man stepped from behind a clump of trees and walked up behind Mike’s seated figure. Mike sensed his presence and turned to look up into the cold blue eyes of Jack Mosley. He was not startled—nor was he frightened. It was a calm acceptance.

“All right, Morrison, stand up—no outcry—move into the woods.”