The Angry Hills (4 page)

The bartender began rambling in Greek.

“Englezos—telephone—ring—ring...”

Mike fished through his pocket and slapped a bill on the counter. He stumbled back of the bar to the phone. The bartender glanced at the money and kept his confused vigil.

“Operator—operator—hello...Can you understand me...Englezos? Thank God...American Embassy... No—no—American Embassy... That’s right, that’s right—hurry—please...”

Mike closed his eyes and whispered under his breath as he heard a ring—then two, three, four. “Answer, dammit, answer! Eight—nine—ten—eleven...”

He slid the phone back on the hook and leaned against the back of the bar trying to think through the fog. A sob broke through his lips and tears rolled from his eyes....

“Operator,” he said softly, “operator...Englezos.”

The operator did not understand. He held the phone a moment.

“Operator,” he whispered. “Englezos, yes, Englezos... I want Associated Press... Associated Press. American News. Yes, that’s right...”

Ring—ring.

“A.P., Watson speaking.”

“Mister—mister—I’m an American.... I’m in trouble.”

“You’d better call the Embassy then.”

“No, wait! Don’t hang up. They didn’t answer.... You’ve got to help me.”

“Go on.”

“They’re after me—they’re trying to kill me.”

“What is this, a gag?”

“No—no... I tell you they’re trying to kill me.”

“Go on, Fred. Stop trying to disguise your voice—we’re busy now.”

“For God’s sake! Listen to me!”

“Hey, is this on the level?”

“Yes—yes—on the level...”

“Say, you sound drunk to me.”

“I’m drunk.... I can’t help it....They’re after me.... You’ve got to help me.”

“Who’s after you?”

“I don’t know...”

The line went dead. Mike clicked it a dozen times. “Hello... hello...hello...”

He froze against the back of the bar as he saw the black automobile cruise slowly in front of the saloon.

Outside, he hugged the shadows praying for his head to clear—praying for a sign of human life. A block away he came to the National Gardens. The trees and shrubbery and blacked-out lanes would give him cover for the moment. The trees dripped moisture under the gentle rustle of a small wind. Each new sound startled him. His brain reeled in confusion.

Morrison circled about aimlessly, keeping off the paths, clinging to the high hedges. A large building loomed ahead of him. Parliament Building, he thought... Constitution Square was near.

“There must be someone... There must be people...”

The Avenue Amalia opened before him and the Square beyond it. The Square was empty—the street deserted. He knelt in the brush for several moments. A taxi stopped before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Morrison dashed forward, flung the back door open and fell into the seat.

“Everyone—where has everyone gone?”

“The British are withdrawing from Athens. The people stay in their homes.... Where do you wish to go?”

“Go? Take me—take me—just drive.”

It was so horribly strange—all of it was so horribly strange. If his head would only clear—if he could only think. His hand felt something in his pocket. He looked at the credential:
MAJOR THEODORE HOWE-WILKEN: INTELLIGENCE SERVICE
. The small white envelope was in his hand....

“Take me—take me to the Tatoi airdrome.”

SIX

T
HE TAXI SPED THROUGH
the slippery streets, jolting to sudden stops and taking turns on two wheels with a total disregard for life and limb.

The waves of fear slowly subsided in Morrison, but the events of the past hours were as blurred as the buildings he sped past. It was still impossible for him to think clearly. He knew he must not close his eyes for he would pass out. He clung to one thought as he fought off the walls of unconsciousness closing in on him. He had to get on that airplane at Tatoi and get as far away from Athens and Greece as he could. It was only this basic instinct of self-preservation that held back the effects of three bottles of
krasi
and the lightning chain of events that had followed.

At ten forty-five the taxi screeched to a halt before an entanglement of barbed wire which encompassed the air field.

“Put out those headlights,” a sentry ordered.

Mike reeled from the cab, paid the driver and staggered toward the sentry.

“There’s a plane for me.... Major—Major Howe-Wilken.”

The guard studied the wavering figure with much apprehension. Morrison was, indeed, a very sorry sight

“May I see your pass?”

“Pass...Sure—sure...”

The soldier took the card and stepped into the small guard shack and turned a muffled flashlight on it. He returned to Mike, snapped to attention and peeled off a rigid British salute to perfection. Mike sighed in relief.

The guard went into the shack again and cranked the phone. “This is Private Edmonds, station three. Major Howe-Wilken has arrived. Yes, sir, very good, sir.” He hung up.

“Won’t you step in, Major? A command car will be here for you in a few moments. That’s your plane over there, sir, on the east runway.”

Much of the overcast had broken. A few stars peeked down and a quarter moon played hide and seek behind the scattering clouds. Mike squinted through the window. Far across the field he made out the shadowed outline of a large transport.

He found his pipe and patted his pockets for matches.

“Sorry, sir, but I’ll have to ask that you refrain from smoking. Blackout regulations, you know.”

“’Scuse me...”

There was a great to-do outside. The air was filled with the sound of motors. Mike walked to the door and looked to the nearby highway. A long convoy of trucks filled with soldiers ground to a halt.

“What’s all that?”

“Troops from the Camp at Kokinia, sir. They’re stopping to pick up our detachment at the airport, sir. Bloody shame, if you ask me, Major, about us pulling out of Athens. We’d give the Hun a show if they let us. Oh, forgive me, Major Wilken, but there were some inquiries for you.”

Mike spun around from the door.

“Chap in a New Zealand uniform—a lance corporal—didn’t give his name. He was with a rather fat gentleman. Greek, I’d suppose. He asked if you’d checked through.”

Mike again felt the clammy cold of fear....

“And the other chap drove by just a few moments ago. Mr. Soutar.”

“Soutar?”

“Yes, sir. Little thin bloke with horn-rimmed specs. Scotsman, if I’ve ever heard one.”

Mike’s fist tightened around the pistol in his pocket. He looked through the night to the plane. He could hear the first spitting sounds of its motor turning over to warm up.

Get on it... I’ll get on it.... I’ll get on it....

“What the hell’s keeping that car?”

“Sorry, sir, it should be here shortly.”

Private Edmonds watched, puzzled, from a respectful distance as Mike began a nervous, wavering pacing. The private listened as Mike’s breathing turned to labored grunts. He looked into Mike’s bleary eyes.... Strange ducks, these Intelligence chaps, Private Edmonds thought.

An automobile raced over the east runway. It halted two hundred yards away as a chorus of air-raid sirens screamed around the field.

A distant sound of approaching motors from the invisible sky above.

The occupants of the car scattered on the runway.

The sound of the motors above turned to a drone and became louder and louder.

A shattering roar as anti-aircraft batteries split the air and white puffs of smoke exploded in the sky after a crisscross of pencil-slim lights darted and probed.

The overhead motors were suddenly silent.

For the first time, Mike Morrison heard that hideous scream—the scream of Stukas.

To the sirens and the whistles below, the Stukas answered with a discordant symphony of their own.

Men fled from the convoy at the roadside amid desperate, aimless commands.

The shriek of the Stukas became louder as they swooped like vultures on their prey.

The earth danced amid blinding flashes of light and fearful ear-bursting blasts.

Mike dropped to the floor and covered his ears. The scream tore across the field again. His hands tried to claw through the wooden floor. The shack bounced and Mike saw the dazed guard careen into a wall and roll to the floor unconscious.

Mike crawled to the door and shoved it open. The airdrome was a field of bright orange flames reaching toward the sky. In its light he saw the airplane on the east burn into searing oblivion.

A plan of desperation hit him. He crawled back to the prostrate body of the guard. The scream again! A blast rolled him against the wall. They won’t get me! They won’t get me!

He half tore the clothes from the guard’s body.... They won’t get me...they won’t get me... He tugged at the man’s pants; then ripped his own clothes from him.

He struggled into the guard’s clothes as the thunder outside rose to a crescendo.

His hands fished through the pockets of his own clothes. Envelope—wallet—pipes—passport—the credential—pistol...

He staggered through the doorway.

A shadow raced over the runway toward the shack. “Morrison! Morrison!” a voice pierced through the inferno. “Morrison! Morrison! Morrison!” The shadow took the form of a man.

Mike stumbled, crawled, bolted toward the line of trucks on the highway.

Then everything was quiet.

The planes vanished and the air was still.

The lights around the field blinked off leaving only the glow of the fire.

Mike knelt beside a truck, clutched at his stomach then rolled over on the ground. “Oh, Jesus—Jesus—I’m sick—I’m sick...”

The spinning would not stop. American Embassy—they’ll get you—they’ll get you—empty wet streets—oh, go on Fred, we’re busy—no time for gags—they’ll get you—they’ll get you—blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his mustache was wet with blood—the glasses lay smashed—long hall with white marble statues—Kifissia Hotel, thataway...

Then there was nothing.

“Bloody Huns!”

“Hey, Tom. Over here. I think this bloke’s been hit.”

“From the smell of him I’d say he’s been on too much Greek wine.”

“All right, lads, hop to it. Get aboard the lorries.”

“Give us a hand, sergeant. He’s out cold.”

Mike’s body was shoved aboard the truck. The tail gate clanged shut behind him.

The convoy roared off.

SEVEN

M
ORRISON LOOKED THROUGH A
window. On the other side of the window faces stared at him—a hundred faces and the faces stared at him with shocked eyes. The faces wore masks of terror. Faces of Greeks.

The window began to move and the faces blurred.

Mike bolted up in his seat then slid back. His head pounded and throbbed. There was a dry, pasty, miserable taste in his mouth and a queasy feeling in his stomach. He grunted and rubbed his temples.

On the opposite seat Mike saw a man stretched out. He was in uniform and his face was wrapped in bandages. The man groaned.

Mike pushed out of his seat and stretched. He was in a compartment on a train. He looked down the aisle and saw other compartments filled with wounded soldiers.

He flopped into his seat and dropped his head into his hands. Then, the first of the recollections came to him. A voice in the shadows, “you have no choice, Morrison....”

Mike fumbled wildly through his pockets. He held the card—
MAJOR THEODORE HOWE-WILKEN: INTELLIGENCE
... He stared at the small white envelope...

The train clickety-clacked past a grove of olive trees. The soldier opposite him moaned again and rolled and twisted in agony.

Mike sat through several moments of puzzled silence. Snatches of memory returned and he began to fit pieces together. So many of the events seemed hazy; others he could not recall. He looked about him again. The train—the uniform—the envelope—the pass. It was no nightmare—it had really happened.

He found the comfort of his pipe and tried to reason the situation out. Stergiou, the attorney, was obviously mixed up in something of importance. The “something” being the contents of the small white envelope. An adversary wanted the envelope.... British Intelligence was in on it, so, Mike reasoned, the Germans were the adversaries.

He shuddered as he reviewed the harrowing hours. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

Michael Morrison knew as much as he wanted to know. One thing was certain: he was going to get out of the whole affair quickly.

The fright of yesterday turned to anger. The audacity of that Stergiou!

He rubbed his temples again and the throbbing eased. Then he laughed to himself. “Damnedest thing, they’ll never believe me when I tell them about this at the Press Club—damnedest thing.”

The train stopped.

There was a sound of digging outside.

The door of the compartment opened. A man wearing the Red Cross arm band of a medic entered.

After examining the wounded soldier opposite Mike, the medic opened his kit and pumped a shot of morphine into the man’s arm. “Easy now, chappie, the doctor will be by shortly.” The medic turned to Mike. “I see you’re up now. How are you feeling?”

“Little the worse for wear.”

“We examined you when they put you aboard last night. Couldn’t locate a wound. If you’re feeling better you’d best rejoin your unit. You’ll find them somewhere about on the train.”

“What’s going on out there?” Mike asked.

“We’ve reached Corinth—taking on another detachment of troops.”

“What’s the digging?”

“Sappers. They’re going to blow the bridges after the last of the trains pass. We’re withdrawing into lower Greece, the Peloponnesus.”

Mike felt his heart sink. He had to make a move quickly.

“I say. You’d better get back to your unit.”

“Who’s in command of the train?” Mike asked curtly.

“Colonel Potter—why?”

Mike flashed Major Howe-Wilken’s card at the medic. “Find the Colonel and tell him I wish to speak to him immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” The medic retreated to the door.

“Soldier!”

“Yes, Major.”