A New Kind of War

‘Go on – go on!’ Kyriakos waved an equally ridiculous hand at him, as though to disagree with the ridiculous finger. ‘ Talk to me.’

‘Yes.’ But, on the other hand, it was Christmas Eve, thought Fred.

Because General Scobie had abolished Christmas Day, 1944, for the British Army in Athens: it just wouldn’t have sounded right for dummy4

the British Army – the Liberators – to have carolled ‘Peace on Earth, and Good Will to All Men’ when they’d been busy killing their erstwhile Communist allies, with their 25-pounders firing over the Parthenon, and the cruisers and destroyers in the bay stonking targets along the Piraeus road, and the Spitfires wheeling like eagles overhead! ‘It’s the eve of Scobiemas, I mean, Kyriakos.’

‘Ah! Of course – I had forgotten! Scobiemas is tomorrow, of course! But we Greeks do not keep Scobiemas. Or Christmas, either – remember?’

Dead right! Fred remembered. And General Scobie had been dead right too, because the Commies had launched a midnight attack on the Rouf Barracks garrison, Christmas Day-Boxing Day, on the otherwise reasonable assumption that the British would be pissed out of their minds by then; whereas in fact, thanks to General Scobie, they’d been stone-cold sober and ready – and bloody-minded with it . . . also thanks to General Scobie, by God! But he had to talk –

‘I went to a party on Christmas Day, actually.’

‘You did?’ Kyriakos took a step towards him, turning slightly and draping a friendly arm across his shoulders. ‘I thought that all the parties were forbidden then – ?’ He glanced sidelong, uphill.

‘It was for Greeks, too.’ Fred let the friendly arm propel him forwards along the path. ‘What do you see?’

‘Nothing . . . slowly now ... for Greeks, you say?’

‘Greek children. Some 4th Div gunners gave it.’ Fred let himself be pushed towards the rocky outcrop. ‘I saw one little kid gobble dummy4

up four days’ M and V rations all by himself.’ It seemed a very long twenty yards to the outcrop, at this friendly snail’s-pace. ‘And a couple of platefuls of peaches after that, plus a pile of biscuits.’

‘Yes. I heard about that.’ The arm restrained him. ‘But it wasn’t a gunners’ party – it was 28 – Brigade RASC, Fred.’

‘Well, it was a gunner who took me along.’ They were getting closer, step by step. ‘But you’re probably right: trust the RASC to have the peaches!’ Fred shivered –slightly at the memory of the bitter wind which had chilled him before and after the party, as he’d helped the gunners find a position in suburban Athens free of electricity cables (which they had not been allowed to pull down; and there was the added problem of the Parthenon, high up and dead ahead, which had worried one classically-educated subaltern mightily) . . . but mostly it was the last three agonizing yards, shuffled step by slow step, which frightened him.

‘There now!’ Kyriakos released him at last, under the safety of the rock. ‘Home and dry – eh?’

Fred watched, wordless and fascinated, as the Greek slid a stiletto from his jack-boot and began to excavate a hole in the detritus beneath the rock.

‘There now!’ As he repeated the words Kyriakos fumbled inside his battle-dress blouse to produce a succession of documents –

paybook, letters and military identification – which he then buried in the hole, smoothing the surface above them. And then, finally, he fished another collection of even more dog-eared papers from his other boot, which went back into the empty battle-dress pocket.

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The power of speech returned to Fred. ‘What the hell are you doing, Kyri?’

Kyriakos grimaced at him. ‘Not Kyri or Kyriakos –“Alexander” –

or “Alex”, for short . . . shit!’

‘Sh – ?’ Fred failed to complete the obscenity as Kyriakos reached beneath his leather jerkin, first on one side and then on the other, to unbutton his epaulets, so that they each hung down over his arms.

Then he flipped the stiletto and offered it to Fred.

‘Cut them off!’ he commanded.

‘What?’ Fred had already admired the smart khaki-green Canadian battle-dress which Kyriakos had acquired during his service with the British Columbia Dragoons in Italy: to rip that uniform, never mind the badges of rank, seemed a blasphemy. ‘Why?’

‘Cut them off – hurry up! Don’t argue, there’s a good chap.’

Fred hacked at the straps left-handed, clumsily at first, and then with greater success as the sharp steel divided the stitching.

‘Pull the threads out – go on – make a proper job of it, then.’

Kyriakos admonished him casually, yet the very gentleness of the admonition somehow urged its importance.

Fred finished the job as best he could, and he watched the Greek pick out every last shred of evidence. ‘You did see something –

just now – didn’t you!’

‘Thank you.’ Kyriakos took the epaulets and the knife from him, hefting the epaulets for a moment as though weighing their rank.

Then he bent down and opened the hole again with the stiletto, to add his badges of rank to his identity. ‘Our best intelligence is that dummy4