A New Kind of War

this area is clear, all the way to Mesolongion. And we’ve got the gulf patrolled now.’ He started refilling the hole again. ‘The word was that the Communists were pulling back into the mountains north and south of it – they don’t want to be caught with their backs to the sea, come spring. Or whenever.’ He replanted a straggling little piece of desiccated greenery on top of his handiwork, and then bent down to blow away the tell-tale regularities left by his fingers. ‘But . . .’

‘But?’ The Greek’s casual certainty that his civil war would resume its murderous course depressed Fred, for all that it hardly surprised him: the British had imposed the truce by overwhelming force of arms, but there had been too much blood-letting in those first dark December days, with too many scores left unsettled, for any compromise settlement to last – that was what all his better informed elders said. ‘But what?’

Kyriakos sprinkled a final handful of dust on the hiding place.

Then he looked back at Fred. ‘But I think I want to be careful, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’ Fred resisted the temptation to answer his own question.

‘In case our best intelligence is wrong.’ Kyriakos showed his teeth below his moustache. ‘My friend, perhaps I imagined something . . . But if I did not, then they will most certainly have observed us. And now they will know that we are behind this rock.

So – ’

The Spandau on the other side of the ridge cut Kyriakos off with its characteristic tearing-knocking racket, only to be suddenly cut off dummy4

itself by prolonged bursts of fire from first one, and then another LMG.

‘Ah!’ Kyriakos breathed out slowly as the knock-knock-knock of the answering machine-gun died away. ‘So now we know!’

So now they knew, thought Fred tightly. It was a familiar enough scenario, re- enacted endlessly in no different and equally hated Italian mountains these last two years: the rearguard or outpost machine-gunner getting in his first murderous burst, but then (if he was so unwise as to remain in his position) being outflanked or bracketed by the vengeful comrades of the first victims.

‘Brens, the second time.’ Kyriakos unbuttoned his webbing holster and examined his revolver. ‘So that must be our people, I would think – okay?’

Fred stared at him, conscious equally of the weight of his own side-arm and of his left-handed inadequacy. ‘Not our people, Kyri.’

‘No.’ Kyriakos replaced the revolver in its holster. ‘Not your people – our people. But that at least gives us a chance.’ He removed his beret, grinning at Fred as he did so. ‘Lucky I didn’t wear my proper hat. So maybe I’m lucky today.’

Fred watched the Greek raise his head slowly over the top of the rock, trying to equate luck with headgear. Unlike his fellow officers, who wore bus conductors’ SD hats, wired and uncrumpled and quite different from his own, Kyri often wore a black Canadian Dragoons’ beret, complete with their cap badge. But then Kyri was an eccentric, everyone agreed.

‘Nothing.’ Always the professional, Kyriakos lowered his head as dummy4

slowly as he had raised it. ‘I think I am still lucky, perhaps.’

‘Bugger your luck!’ A further burst of firing, punctuated now by the addition of single rifle shots, snapped Fred’s nerve. ‘What about mine? This is supposed to be my Christmas Eve – I’m your bloody guest, Kyriakos!’

‘Ah . . . but you must understand that your odds are a lot better than mine, old boy.’ Kyriakos grinned at him.

‘They are?’ Somehow the assurance wasn’t reassuring. ‘Are they?’

‘Oh yes.’ The grin was fixed unnaturally under the moustache, the eyes were not a-smiling. ‘If our side runs away – your pardon! If my side withdraws strategically to regroup ... If that happens, then the Andartes will outflank us here – ’ Kyriakos gestured left and right, dismissively ‘ – or take us from below, without difficulty, I’m afraid.’

Fred followed the gestures. There was dead ground not far along the track ahead, and more of it behind them. And they were in full view of the track below.

‘I know this country – this place.’ The Greek nodded at him.

There’s a little ruined monastery over the ridge, which the Turks destroyed long ago. I have walked this path before, with my father, in the old days: it is the secret back door to the village which is below the monastery. So ... I am very much afraid that our people have made a mistake – the same mistake the Turks once made: they have come up from the sea, to attack the monastery ... if that is where the andartes are . . . when they should have come out of the mountains, over this ridge – up this path, even – to take it in the dummy4

rear, and push them down to the sea . . . That will be some foolish, stiff-necked Athenian staff officer, who thinks he knows everything, as the Athenians always do.‘

The firing started again, this time punctuated by the distinctive crump of mortar shells – a murderous, continuous shower of them.

Kyriakos swore in his native tongue, unintelligibly but eloquently, and Fred frowned at him. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Those are three-inch – they’ll be ours. So our people are well-equipped.’

That didn’t make sense. ‘So they’ll win – ?’

‘Too bloody right!’ Kyriakos swore again.

‘So what’s wrong with that?’

‘I told you.’ Kyriakos was hardly listening to him. He was studying the landscape again. ‘I know this place.’