The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [14]
The argument ended as a hail of bullets ripped the earth around them.
On and on, wave after wave worked over the grove without mercy or respite. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes... Streaking tracers, thundering motors
Then, their bombs gone, their machine guns empty, the Stukas ended their sport and flew off.
It was deathly silent in the grove. The men were too stunned to budge. Mike sat up and dropped his head on his knees. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered as the last motor faded from hearing.
After a while a slow movement started. Soldiers walked in dazed circles and spoke in shaky whispers. In another five minutes the grove was a bedlam of men running and shouting.
Someone tapped Mike on his shoulder.
A young Australian captain stood over him. “You there, get over there.” He pointed to a unit of men forming outside the grove.
Mike wobbled to his feet. “Colonel Potter—where is he?”
“The Colonel’s been hit,” the captain said.
“I want to speak to the next in command.” He dug into his pockets for the credential. It was missing. Mike looked about. Some soldiers were staring at him. The whole place was in utter confusion. It would be useless...
“Sorry, sir,” Mike said to the captain and he joined the group of men at the edge of the grove.
Other officers were forming groups of a hundred men, regardless of former units. The Aussie captain stood before Mike’s group.
“All right, lads, pay attention,” the captain said. “With those Stukas about, we’ve got to stay in small units. No more train rides...”
Feeble laughter.
“We strike out by foot and stay together.”
“Captain, sir, where are we going?”
“That’s a top secret,” the captain lied. He wished he knew.
“If the Stukas come again, sir, may we fire back?”
It was a ridiculous question. There were but twelve Enfields in the group of a hundred men. Many more ridiculous questions were asked about water and rations. The captain seemed short on answers.
They moved out over the rails toward the foothills, marching at a murderous pace in search of refuge before the Stukas returned.
As for Michael Morrison, American tourist... He was helplessly snarled in a gang of desperate, fleeing men. It was useless for him to try to find someone in command—no one seemed to be in command. Where to go? What to do? Where to run? Where to hide?
As the afternoon wore on, Mike began to limp from the nonstop hike. He remembered feeling like this once before in his life. Those first weeks after Ellie’s death he had gone through the outward motions of living, but everything inside him had dried up and his mind had been clouded by fear and hopelessness.
The column pressed deeper and deeper into the foothills. The soldiers were weary beyond words—too weary even to gripe. The terrain became more rugged as they pushed on. When the sun dropped behind the far hills and the air had cooled, the captain decided it would be safe to take a break.
The men scattered among the rocks and brush after guzzling at a stream, despite warnings from the NCO’s.
Darkness fell on the Peloponnesus...
The soldiers fell into fitful exhausted sleep.
But Michael Morrison dared not indulge in the luxury. Through bloodshot eyes he kept vigil during the black hours. A vigil against the little man in the horn-rimmed glasses and the tall blond man who called himself Jack Mosley. Who were they? How many others were looking for him? Everyone was to be eyed with suspicion—everyone!
Mike dozed fitfully, but every whisper of a tree, every stir of a restless sleeper brought him fully awake. He mumbled to himself, snatches of poems, dialogues from his books, anything to keep himself awake....
Dawn.
The second day the group wandered aimlessly, deeper and deeper into the hills, making for the mountains.
The Stukas came and found them. The turkey shoot was on again. Seven times during the day the group was sighted and seven times they flung themselves to earth.... And each time they arose and reeled about like punch-drunk fighters and pushed on.
The unholy rape of Greece was on. Every village