A New Kind of War Read online

  ‘But not altogether useless.’ With typical good manners Kyriakos hastened to take the sting from his criticism. ‘That was a Browning—a “B-A-R”, as our American friends would say … a nice little weapon.’

  ‘Yes?’ Fred let himself be soothed, knowing that Kyri was using his hobby to soothe him, deliberately. ‘I bow to your experience, Captain Michaelides. But what does that mean?’

  ‘Not a lot, to be honest. It goes back a long way, does the BAR … We had some of them in 1940—Belgian FN variants … But, then so did the Poles. And the Germans and the Russians inherited them, as well as ours, of course … But, so far as I’m aware, you never used them, old boy.’

  Lying back and looking upwards Fred caught sight of one of the eagles making a wider circuit. Or maybe the bloody bird had pinpointed his dinner now. ‘So those aren’t our friends, up there?’

  Kyriakos thought for a moment. ‘Ah … now, I don’t think we have any friends at the moment, either way.’ Another moment’s thought. ‘Because we’re not part of the action: we’re an inconvenience, you might say.’

  The fire-fight continued sporadically over the crest. By now the commanding officers on each side would be estimating casualties and discretion against the remaining hours of daylight and their very difficult objectives. And suddenly an overwhelming bitterness suffused Fred. Because the bloody Germans were one thing, and bad enough. But the bloody Greeks were another—and this really wasn’t the war he had volunteered for. Even, until now, it wasn’t a war which he had been able to take seriously: it was Kyri’s bloody war, not the British army’s bloody war—and especially not his!

  All of which made him think of the unthinkable, which nestled in his pocket, where he had put it this morning, freshly laundered. ‘How about surrendering—for the time being?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kyriakos nodded. ‘I had been thinking about that, also.’

  The lightness of the Greek’s voice alerted him. The truce talks … we could claim flag of truce—couldn’t we?‘

  ‘We could.’ The Greek had his own large white handkerchief. ‘But … if you don’t mind … we will claim it my way—’ He shook the handkerchief out. ‘—okay?’

  Suddenly Fred felt the breath of a colder wind within him than one he had already felt on his cheeks. ‘Kyri—’

  ‘No! You are quite right, old boy!’ Kyriakos shook his handkerchief. ‘We wouldn’t get ten yards … This way … there’s a chance, I agree—’

  ‘No-’

  ‘Yes!’ The Greek nodded. ‘I am “Alex”—’ He patted his battle-dress pocket‘—and you wanted to visit Delphi … you can bullshit them about your classical education, and how you are a British socialist—tell them that you don’t like Winston Churchill, if you get the chance … But say that Spiros in Levadhia—Spiros the baker—he recommended me. Okay?’

  ‘Spiros, the baker.’ Fred echoed the order. ‘In Levadhia—?’

  ‘That’s all. Let me do the talking, old boy.’ Kyriakos drew a breath, and then grinned at him. ‘If they’re in doubt they won’t shoot you—they can always trade you: you’re worth more alive than dead at the moment—don’t argue—’ He raised his hand quickly to preclude the argument‘—I know what to say, if we can only get them to talk. And since this is their only line of retreat I think they’ll talk—at least, to start with.’ He qualified the grin with a shrug. ‘After that, it will be as God always intended.’

  Fred bridled, already bitterly regretting his suggestion. ‘I don’t know, Kyri.’ The truth, which he had quite failed to grasp in half-grasping, was that it was this man’s own bloody war, truce or no truce. And that meant … that if it was true that a British officer had some value as a prisoner, it was even more true that a Greek royalist officer was certain to be shot out of hand if caught in the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time. In fact, Kyri himself had said as much—and he had replied with cowardly stupidity, claiming guest-rights on Scobiemas Eve—I’m your bloody guest, Kyri! ‘I don’t think so.’

  The Greek frowned. ‘Don’t think what, old boy?’

  Fred shivered inwardly, aware that he could never explain his shame—that would make it worse. ‘I don’t think I care to take the chance. I think I’d rather shoot it out here—’ He clawed at his holster with his right hand, only to find that the damn claw was as useless as ever—more useless even, in its very first real emergency ‘—damn it!’ Damn it to hell! Now he had to reach across with his fumbling left hand! ‘What I mean is … we can just slow them up, and wait for our chaps to come up behind them, Kyri.’ The bloody thing wouldn’t come out—it was snagged somehow—damn it to hell and back!

  ‘Too late, old boy,’ the Greek murmured, almost conversationally, raising himself, and then raising and waving his arm with the handkerchief on the end of it. ‘There! Never done that before … but there’s always a first time for everything, they say … And I’m told it always worked a treat with the Germans—with their ordinary fellows, anyway … eh?’

  ‘Oh … fuck!’ Fred almost wept with frustration as his left hand joined the claw’s mutiny. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Such language!’ Kyriakos tut-tutted at him. ‘We made a pact—remember, old boy?’

  That was also true, thought Fred as he gagged on other and fouler expletives, in giving up the struggle: only hours—or maybe only minutes—before they had discussed the degeneration of their everyday language under the influence and pressure of army life, in the light of their imminent meeting with Madame Michaelides (who countenanced no such words) and Fred’s eventual return to the bosom of his family (who would certainly be equally shocked); and while his own persuasion had been that it would be no problem—that some automatic safety-valve would activate—Kyri had not been so confident, and unashamedly more frightened at the prospect than he seemed to be now, at another prospect, as he waved his large white handkerchief.

  ‘Don’t you forget, now—eh?’ The Greek also waved his finger, admonishing him for all the world as though they were about to meet his mother, instead of more likely God Almighty, Whose intentions they were now supposed to be anticipating. ‘I am Alex, the friend of Spiros—okay?’

  It was also, and finally, true … what Sergeant Procter always said: that you could like a man and hate him at the same time.

  Kyriakos smiled again, turning the knife in the wound.

  ‘So now we wait!’

  ‘What for?’ The mixture of unpleasant noises from the other side of the ridge had become increasingly sporadic while they had been arguing. But now it seemed to have died away altogether, so maybe that was a silly question. ‘Not for long, though?’

  ‘They’ll flank us.’ Kyri gave the handkerchief a final vigorous wave and then pointed first left, then right. ‘Where those gulleys from the top peter out—“peter out”, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Five years of English education, followed by another five of military alliance, had rendered the Greek almost perfectly bi-lingual. But, more than that, Fred at last understood how Kyriakos had seen their position through an infantryman’s eye: while their refuge could easily be flanked from those treacherous gulleys, it also had to be eliminated because they in turn had a clear view of the lower slopes and the track below. ‘I understand, Kyri.’

  ‘Good. Then you watch the left and I will watch the right.’ He paused. ‘And understand this also, old boy: the moment you see anything, you put your hands up—and I mean up—up high, my friend … Because we’ll only have that one moment, maybe. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’ He didn’t want to add to the man’s burdens. ‘And then you’re my guide, Alex … recommended to me by Spiros the baker.’ He wondered for a moment about Spiros the baker: was he one of Captain Michaelides’ ELAS suspects? Or one of the Captain’s double agents? But then, other than sharing the general British Army distaste for the mutual barbarities of the Greeks’ December bloodbath, he had never really attempted to understand their politics: the distinction between Captain Kyriakos Michaelides, of the Royal Helle
nic Army, and Kyriakos Michaelides, the son of Father’s old friend, was not one he had even thought of seriously until now. ‘But I don’t speak halfways decent Greek’s, remember—okay?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’ Kyri threw the words over his shoulder, forcing him to concentrate on his own gulley. ‘I’ll do the talking. Just you be an outraged British ally to start with, old boy — and be angry with me for getting you into trouble. And—’ He stopped suddenly.

  ‘And what?’ He fought the urge to turn towards the sudden silence. ‘Have you spotted something?’

  ‘And … nod … nod and smile when I mention Spiros—okay?’ The Greek spoke with unnatural slowness. ‘Ye-ess … I think maybe I have … so get ready!’

  Fred still couldn’t see anything. But the muscles all the way down his arms wanted to get his hands up even before his brain transmitted its own instructions. ‘Nothing this side —’

  ‘YOU THERE! STAND UP!’

  The shout came from his side, out of nowhere—

  ‘Get up!’ Kyriakos snarled at him from behind.

  Fred and his arms shot up simultaneously, his boots digging into the scree beneath them so urgently that he almost over-balanced; and it was only when he’d rebalanced himself that the reason for his failure to react instantly came to him—

  “DON’T SHOOT!‘ He hadn’t imagined in advance how he was supposed to obey an order given in a foreign language. But there was suddenly no problem about how to reply to an order in the plainest King’s English. ’BRITISH!‘

  Kyri shouted something, also. But Fred was too busy staring at the figure which had risen out of the dead ground of the gulley no more than thirty yards away from him.

  ‘KEEP ’EM UP! DON’T YOU DARE MOVE A FUCKING INCH!‘

  Fred was suddenly impaled on the prongs of disbelief and relief, any last doubts about the identity of his captor dissolved by that beloved obscenity, which sounded sweeter in his ear than all the music of heaven—which could never be foul and harsh again, it was so beautiful.

  The welcome figure advanced cautiously towards him, cradling a gangster’s Thompson machine-pistol in its hands, until it had halved the distance between them.

  ‘KEEP ’EM UP!‘

  Relief had started to lower his arms. But as they instantly went up again, disbelief still clogged his tongue.

  ‘Say something, old boy!’ Kyri no longer snarled, but his voice was nonetheless urgent. ‘Say something!’

  ‘Yes.’ As Fred’s tongue unclogged he felt himself leap from cowardly gratitude to outraged dignity with one five-league stride. ‘What the hell are you up to—’ The man was so close now that he could see the chevrons on his arm ‘—sergeant?’

  ‘What?’ Now it was the sergeant’s turn. ‘What—?’

  ‘Why did you fire at us?’ The unmoving Thompson kept his arms at full stretch, but his sense of outrage began to stretch beyond them.

  The sergeant stared at him for a full second. ‘Who the fu—’ But a sudden caution gagged the word, and he restrained himself. ‘Who are you?’

  Anger took hold of Fred. ‘I am Captain Fattorini—Brigade RE, 4th Div, sergeant. Who are you?’

  The sergeant assimilated that information slowly. But then, after having turned it over in his mind, he switched momentarily to Kyriakos before coming back to Fred himself.

  ‘Identification—’ What the sergeant had seen plainly hadn’t reassured him, because the muzzle of the Thompson jerked slightly, but didn’t leave Fred’s stomach area ‘—slowly, now—identification!’

  Fred reached inside his tunic … slowly, because the sergeant had the gun. But there were limits. ‘Sir—you call me, sergeant.’

  ‘What?’ The sergeant frowned. ‘Sir—?’

  He could understand the sergeant’s doubt. But with that reliable weapon pointing at his guts he needed to resolve that doubt as soon as possible. ‘Aren’t officers “sir” in your unit, sergeant?’

  The sergeant stared at him again. But then something seemed to tighten within him. ‘Put it down on the ground … and then take three steps back … and keep your hands up—put them on the back of your neck—right?’

  Something deep inside Fred tightened also. This wasn’t how it ought to be. But then, this wasn’t a situation he had ever encountered before. And this, also, was a new variety of sergeant—

  ‘Do what he says, old boy,‘ said Kyriakos from behind him.

  He had quite forgotten about Kyri—

  ‘BERT!’ The sergeant shouted past him, and past Kyri. ‘WATCH THEM!’ So they were flanked from the other gulley too then, thought Fred: a careful man, this sergeant.

  He took his ordered steps back, until he sensed Kyriakos behind him, and watched the sergeant retrieve his identification.

  But enough was enough. ‘Just what is going on, sergeant?’

  The sergeant took his time with the identification, giving Fred a long moment’s scrutiny against his four-year-old photograph held up shoulder high for easier comparison. And even at the end of this examination his suspicions were by no means allayed, judging by the stony expression he maintained as his attention shifted to Kyriakos. ‘And who might he be … sir?’ He pronounced the last word grudgingly.

  ‘Can I lower my arms now?’ He had been half-expecting the question, but half-expectation hadn’t helped him choose the right answer. Because if the sergeant was still suspicious of his identity, how much more so might he not be with an evident Greek if that evident Greek admitted to two identities, one in his pocket and the other artistically concealed a yard away?

  ‘No!’ The Thompson, held one-handed, jerked menacingly. ‘No-sir.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Fred had hoped that Kyri would decide for him, but for once he seemed cowed in silence. ‘How long do you intend to keep this bloody charade up, sergeant?’

  ‘Sir?’ The sergeant weakened for a fraction of a second under his onslaught, but then his chin lifted. ‘For as long as I say so … sir.’ The moment of weakness passed. ‘Who is this person, sir?’

  ‘Please—thank you!’ Kyri leapt into the breach at last. ‘Riris, sir—Alexander Riris—driver and guide. And good friend to British officers, sir.’ He laid heavy emphasis on officers. ‘Speaking English well—and with copious personal documentation, please—thank you!’

  ‘Oh yes?’ The sergeant sounded as though he had heard similar protestations of friendship all the way from the Suez Canal, and was long past believing them. ‘Well, let’s have a shuftee, then—STOP!’ The weary disbelief vanished instantly, and Fred’s identification fell to the ground, as the sergeant caught up the Thompson with both hands. ‘What’s that under your jerkin, Johnnie? Lift it up—slowly … the jerkin, I mean, you silly bugger! Watch it!’

  Fred stood like a statue—if there had ever been a statue of surrender—aware that the sergeant had seen the bulge of Kyri’s holster.

  ‘He has a side-arm, sergeant.’ As Fred intervened, the reason for Kyri’s earlier emphasis came to him belatedly. ‘With my permission.’ The sergeant was scared, perhaps. But he was also a well-trained soldier, almost certainly Field Security, although he wore no badge or flash, only his stripes. ‘Where’s your officer? You get him—I demand to speak to him, sergeant.’ Well trained—and cautious and observant: a good sergeant, for his dirty job, just as Sergeant Procter was a good sergeant for his dangerous and unrewarding one. And … somehow that was reassuring. ‘Then I think we can resolve this situation—right?’

  The sergeant didn’t relax. Even, Fred’s shift from that peremptory demand to a more reasonable statement increased his wariness.

  ‘Jacko!’ The shout came from behind, from the other gulley—that must be Bert with the Browning.‘

  Still no relaxation. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tiny’s down below—with Hughie and the lads, Jacko.’

  Sergeant Jacko gave ‘down below’ one lightning-quick glance. ‘Well … you’re in luck, sir.’ But even now he didn’t relax: that was the difference between
the men and the boys. All he did was to raise an eyebrow. ‘You wanted an officer. So here is one … sir.’

  Fred took that as an invitation, and looked down into the valley. There were two vehicles on the track, a jeep and a 15-hundredweight, each with twin Vickers-Berthiers mounted on them which were manned and trained on the ridge while the other occupants fanned out on each side, sinking behind what little cover there was.

  ‘Give ’em a wave, Bert,‘ ordered Sergeant Jacko.

  Three figures rose on Bert’s wave and started uphill, the rest remaining under cover. The most diminutive of them (presumably ‘Tiny’) struggled under the weight of a back-packed wireless. As for the other two, one carried a rifle and the third and largest (Hughie?) appeared to be armed only with a walking-stick. So Hughie would be the officer, thought Fred with an inner sigh. But from his Italian experience he disliked officers who carried sticks: majors or above, they were usually outrageously brave, and often arrogant with it, and given to chivvying the poor devils of sappers required to build their bridges and clear their minefields under fire.

  ‘May I lower my arms now, sergeant?’ It would probably be a most uncomfortable interview, because the intrepid major wouldn’t thank them for disrupting his operations, however accidentally and innocently. And he would probably be rude to Kyri, who was most likely on a short fuse now, after having been shot at and held up by his allies in his own country. But at least they were safe now.

  ‘What?’ Sergeant Jacko paused. ‘No—keep ’em up … sir—and you, Johnnie—up—that’s it … Until I say you can put ‘em down, you keep ’em up, sir. Right?‘

  Fred fumed in silence as he watched the figures approach. The large major was well in the lead now, unencumbered either by caution, like his rifleman, or by equipment, like the little wireless-man, who was falling further and further behind. Yet, even as he fumed—the sergeant’s caution really went beyond the bounds of prejudice—he identified a tingle of excited curiosity. That the Greeks on both sides might be indulging any opportunity to settle up during the truce really came as no surprise: their private scores dated from long before the war, so it seemed from Kyri’s chance remarks, which were all the more blood-curdling because by Greek standards he was an unusually unbloodthirsty and liberal royalist, thirsting for peace and wine and women after five years of war, but apparently resigned to achieving only the last two for the foreseeable future. But this was quite obviously a British operation, regardless of the truce—