The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [10]
“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