A New Kind of War

business?’

Kyriakos didn’t reply immediately, even though Fred released his grip. ‘Who knows?’ They were letting the truck do its own work now. ‘We Greeks have our business to settle, here in Greece.’ He didn’t move. ‘For which we need you bloody British, most regrettably ... At least, until we can involve the Americans in it, I am thinking.’

The Yanks?‘ Fred heard the incredulity in his voice. ’What have they got to do with it?‘

‘Nothing yet.’ Kyriakos didn’t look at him. ‘I think we had better move, old man. Because your brother’s old school-fellow will be remembering us again very soon. And . . . and I would not have him mistrust us, after having trusted us so foolishly – even though he had us in his sights all the time, as he very well knew – eh?’

Fred looked down at the road and understood; because young Mr What’s-his-name – young Mr David Audley, the big baby dragoon

– had spoken to his two machine-gunners on the vehicles, and they dummy4

had kept their guns trained up the hillside, by God!

‘What you want to think about, old man, is – ’ Kyri waved deliberately at Audley without looking at Fred ‘ –is ... why did your great Mr Winston Churchill come all the way to Greece on Christmas Day – not Scobiemas Day tomorrow, but your real Christmas Day, when we were both so busy – eh?’

And it was so bloody cold! remembered Fred irrelevantly: his Greek baptism had been that bitter wind cutting him to the bone. In fact ... in fact, he hadn’t registered Christmas Day at all – that gunners’ party for the children hadn’t actually been on Christmas Day, he remembered now: it had been after Boxing Day actually.

Because all the bloody days had been just bloody days, one after another –

‘He came here because he had business here.’ Kyri waved again.

‘So when you think about this business, maybe you’d better think of Mister Winston Churchill’s business – okay?’

‘Yes – okay!’ Fred checked for an instant, and then jumped past the Greek knowing that he really hadn’t the faintest idea what the man was talking about, but also that he didn’t like it: this was all bloody politics, and no one in his right mind trusted politicians –

the bloody politicians fucked things up, everyone was agreed on that: the bloody politicians had never heard an S-Mine go click underfoot on the roadside verge, beside a blown bridge, in that single careless moment – or felt all the bones in a good right hand go crunch between unyielding metal –

But Audley was waving and beckoning at them. And the real dummy4

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.’

dummy4

‘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 . . .