good progress despite dogged defence from the Maoris and Greek irregulars. Captain Blatter dispatched Lieutenant Horsmann’s company — including Peter Wachter and me — towards a village called Galatsi. The 109s were still shrieking over our heads, their machine guns shredding trees and anyone beneath them. I had been ordered to the front of the line by Blatter before we left. It was clear that he hoped I would stop at least one bullet. Horsmann gave me a sympathetic glance, but was powerless to contradict his superior.
It was a hot morning and we passed several German corpses. Their faces were blackened and flyblown, their bellies swollen to bursting point except for those who had been hit in the abdomen. Soon the word went round that our men had been mutilated. This caused anger and a burning desire for revenge amongst the others, but I was only saddened by the waste of young lives.
The outskirts of Galatsi — less a village than a hamlet — were deserted, the walls of the simple peasant houses wrecked by strafing and the roofs of most of them collapsed. There was the occasional burst of firing on the higher ground to the south, but little of it came our way — Blatter’s men were clearing out the enemy.
We assembled in the small square around an ancient tree, most of its leaves blown to the dusty ground. There was a gap in the aerial activity and I heard birds singing from the small gardens behind the shattered buildings. And then came a combination of sounds that, first, set our nerves on edge and, second, sent us scurrying for cover.
Two British light tanks came into view at the other end of the street and started firing at us. They accelerated, our return fire ringing off their armoured fronts and sides. But they were only the start of our travails. Behind them came the New Zealanders, bellowing war cries and carrying rifles with long bayonets. They were followed in turn by Greek troops, some of them armed with nothing more than pistols and knives. They were also shouting a battle cry, a single word repeated over and over again. Later I learned it was ‘
We were the elite, so inevitably my comrades dealt death to many of the attackers, but they were not discouraged. The tanks ran to a stop, their crews killed — at least so we thought, until a stocky officer with fair hair leapt from the turret and emptied his pistol into a paratrooper who had foolishly gone forward. He then seized the dead man’s weapons and took cover behind the vehicle, waiting for the charge to reach him.
Machine-gun fire rang out from all around the square. I saw Wachter, his face set hard, discharge drum after drum. That didn’t save him. He was skewered by a pair of burly Maoris, one of whose bayonets broke off when it pinned him to the ground.
‘Direct your fire!’ Lieutenant Horsmann yelled, but it was too late.
The wave of attackers dashed over us, New Zealanders trampling paratroopers with their heavy boots, the Greeks, who I later found were gendarmes, cutting throats and smashing heads open with the butts of German rifles they had taken from the dead. Then came the locals, old men throwing rocks at downed men, boys handing them more, and women. . it was then that I saw her, the woman I had left on the ground before we retreated to the Tavronitis. There was a bloodied bandage over her shoulders, but she was firing an MP40 from the hip. Her hair was tangled and raised by the wind — she could have been a Gorgon or a Fury, come to claim our bodies for the death god.
Fire from my comrades was minimal now. The lieutenant charged forward with an MG34, but was cut down by a blow from a curved sword wielded by a bearded man in baggy trousers. His head was almost severed.
Panicked, I tried to fire, but my machine-pistol jammed. I took out my bayonet and pistol, ready to face what was coming to me as the last of the unit. I hit a gendarme in the leg and a hail of fire was directed at me. By some miracle, I escaped injury. Then a Maori leapt on me and knocked the weapons from my hands. He heaved me up and threw me against the wall, pulling back his rifle with its awful bayonet.
‘No!’ came a scream from the window.
I looked past the New Zealander and saw the woman I had spared, her face spattered with blood.
‘This man, mine!’ she said in a crude English accent, coming through the window frame. Beyond her I saw the fair-haired British officer. He was shooting our wounded in the head with the Luger he had plundered.
The Maori shrugged and strode away, while the woman raised the MP40 at me. The irony of being executed with a German weapon didn’t escape me, but I wasn’t afraid. I wanted to leave this world of fire and slaughter.
She fired above my head, pieces of plaster falling past my eyes. Then she stepped up, eyes burning into mine all the while, and beckoned me to take off my helmet. She swung back the machine-pistol and smashed the butt into the side of my head.
Before I went into the darkness I saw her lips form into a smile that wasn’t completely full of hate.
There was no alternative, Mavros realized, to going into the Black Eagle and asking Oskar Mesner to come outside with no more than one sidekick. Tempting him financially seemed the most likely method to work, so he fumbled with the money-belt and took out a thousand euros.
The bar was smoky and the music ear-shredding metal — it was making many of the customers nod their shaven heads like demented puppets. Mesner was at a table with three men, two of whom had bare skulls and the other a crew cut that the US Marine Corps would have approved. Mavros wondered how the Kerstens’ grandson, with his unshaved head and sparse moustache, fitted in.
Moving slowly closer, he held up the money and slipped it into the German’s shirt pocket. That obtained him a degree of interest.
He leant close. ‘There’s more waiting for you outside, Oskar,’ he said in English, having been told Mesner spoke the language. ‘You don’t have to come on your own, but a tough guy like you doesn’t need more than one bodyguard, does he?’
The German looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and disgust — he no doubt disapproved of shoulder- length hair. ‘Karl,’ he said, angling his head to the front of the bar.
One of the skinheads got up, banging his large backside into a young man wearing a Greek national football shirt. Words — probably incomprehensible to each of them — were exchanged, before he pushed his way out of the place. Mavros beckoned Mesner to follow and took up the rear.
‘What’s this about?’ the German demanded, as soon as they hit fresh air.
‘You know what it’s about, Oskar,’ Mavros replied, leading the incongruous pair towards the doorway where Mikis was concealed and stopping a few paces away from it. ‘You have something your grandfather wants.’
‘Oh, that old
‘Except that he’s authorized me to pay you another nine thousand euros,’ Mavros said, with a smile.
‘Who are you? His
The skinhead guffawed.
‘Which means?’ Mavros asked politely.
‘How you say in this fucking language. .? Person who sneezes shit.’
‘No, I’m his person who sneezes euros.’
Mesner looked around — the street was deserted.
‘You have this money with you?’ he asked.
‘Do you think I’m crazy?’ Mavros had considered leaving the funds in Nondas’s place, but had decided he could handle it, especially with Mikis in reserve. ‘You give me the coins, I’ll take you to the cash.’
‘Fuck that,’ the German said, then his face froze. ‘What coins?’
Mavros laughed. ‘Too late. Besides, you were seen. You should be thankful your grandfather didn’t tell the police.’
‘He’d never do that,’ Oskar Mesner bragged.
‘Yes, he will. This is the last time you get let off. Look on the bright side — you’ve just made ten grand.’
The German glared at him. ‘Do you know how much the. . the merchandise is worth?’
Mavros nodded. ‘But twenty per cent is better than nothing.’
‘What if we make you take us to where you’ve got the money?’ Mesner said, glancing at his bulky comrade.
‘Go ahead and try,’ Mavros said.
Mikis, whose English was clearly as good as he’d said it was, stepped into the street, his arms crossed to demonstrate the size of his biceps.
