The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [19]
In the swirl of events that were to become part of history’s darkest hours, a lone man, Michael Morrison, American novelist of sorts, found himself rattling in a truckload of human misery. Without identity—running...
Why was he running? He did not know. There was a reason for everything, he had told himself often. There had been a reason for his wife’s death. Through her passing he had reached maturity and stature as a writer. What was the unknown force that had hurled him into this flaming background? Perhaps some day he’d know.
But why me? he thought. It is not my war.
But was it his war any less than the soldier’s hanging onto the tail gate for dear life? The soldier who was once a sheep rancher in New Zealand? Surely the New Zealander wonders why he is in Southern Greece....
Or was it his war any less than the young Britisher’s who hung over the side and vomited—or the big Arab’s who stood next to him?
Or was it his war any less than the little girl’s who lay in the village square clutching her rag doll?
He continued to wonder and stopped feeling sorry for himself.
Darkness enveloped the mountains.
The troops had been tossed around in the trucks to a point where they could no longer feel pain or exhaustion.
The single file of trucks crept through the towering mountains toward the sea. An endless stream of headlights winding, rising, falling. A stream that looked like pilgrims, carrying lighted candles, wending their way to the Holy Land.
Blood-curdling screams pierced the night when a truck would miss a hairpin turn and plunge its human cargo over a sheer cliff.
Many vehicles balked and broke down. The men had to roll them over the side and the trucks would clatter down a gorge and burst into flame. Cramming aboard already crammed trucks, men hung from wherever they could get a toehold.
The macabre procession rolled on....
Daybreak!
A hundred trucks smoldered in the ravines below the convoy.
The Dunkirk on Wheels came down from the mountains and stopped near the town of Kalámai on the Gulf of Messína. This was the end of the line. There was no place farther to run.
Michael Morrison saw the faces again—the faces of the Greek people. And he wondered. Kalámai, an open city, defenseless, was an ash heap.
The troops scattered through the many lemon groves near Kalámai. Overhead, hundreds of planes began to bomb and strafe every square foot of the already gutted area.
Mike flung himself to the ground. Hour upon hour the Stukas screamed and roared without letup. As the world flamed around him a sudden and deep hatred surged through him. He now knew his enemy.
Midday. The air raid continued.
A corporal wearing a British shoulder patch crawled up to Mike and shook his shoulder.
“Come on, cobber,” the corporal said. “We need some men. There’s a truckload of provisions stranded in Kalámai.”
Mike wriggled along behind the corporal. Overworked medics and doctors worked feverishly nearby on the increasing number of casualties. The corporal rounded up another ten men.
“Any news about the evacuation?”
“I heard they won’t be able to get any ships around here till tomorrow night.”
“What about the Hun?”
“Our rear guard is still holding at Corinth.”
They worked up to the edge of the grove. A truck was waiting. The men broke for the truck, jumped aboard as it raced off toward Kalámai.
The truck rolled into the square. Three Stukas spotted it immediately. The working party quickly scattered over the cobblestones as the planes tore in. In a second the truck erupted into flames.
Mike dashed across the square. Suddenly his feet flew out from under him. He had stumbled over a dead horse. He lay there for several seconds, mesmerized, looking into the animal’s eyes. They seemed to be mocking him, saying, “It isn’t my war, either.” Mike backed away from the horse and ran for a row of nearby houses. As a rack of bombs