The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [20]
Cowering against a wall were an old man and three women. One woman clutched a screaming infant. She tried to soothe the baby by putting her breast to its mouth, but each new bomb burst made the baby scream louder. The old man crossed himself and prayed softly. Another woman was becoming hysterical. Mike turned his eyes from the sight.
Three hours passed before the planes ceased the attack. Mike staggered from the cellar into twilight. The ashes of Kalámai smoldered. The dead horse with the mocking eyes was still lying in the town square.
Mike stumbled down the road from town. A passing truck stopped for him and drove him to a woods which ended about a mile from the sea. Here, the remains of the late British Expeditionary Force awaited evacuation.
Night brought a torrent of rain.
Michael Morrison was too tired to eat the last of his bread and cheese—or to think—or to care. He fell asleep in the mud.
ELEVEN
THE MORNING SUN POURED its warmth on Mike. He rolled around in the slop, half of it caked solid on him. He dug the mud from his eyes and mouth and hair and sat up.
The troops were awake and slowly dispersing to nearby hills which would afford better protection.
Mike was prodded on by an NCO and followed the men up the slopes. On a low rise he borrowed a trench tool, scooped out a small foxhole and sat in it.
From his vantage point Mike could see an endless stretch of the bay. Directly below him nestled the town of Kalámai, close to the water, with neat lines of lemon and olive trees and vineyards, and beyond, the rocky backdrop of the mountains of the Peloponnesian range.
How peaceful it all looked from the hill! Even the planes that flew over Kalámai appeared like harmless little flies. His bread was soggy and inedible, but the cheese was still good. He ate it and drank the last of his water.
For some strange reason the vision of a dead horse and a little girl clutching her rag doll would not leave him. A chill passed through him, a strange sensation that he was on Twin Peaks looking down at San Francisco...
A nearby soldier generously offered Mike the butt of his cigarette. Mike thanked him and began to puff away.
“Hear the Germans have bridged the canal at Corinth.”
That meant the XII Army was already in lower Greece. Unless the British rear guard could pull a miracle they would have to evacuate tonight.
Mike stretched out in his foxhole and looked at the blue sky above him and thought of the dead horse in Kalámai. He thought of the whole fantastic adventure. Almost unconsciously his hand reached inside the breast pocket of the khaki tunic. He held the small white envelope up to his eyes.
He frowned as he studied it. Scrawled in Fotis Stergiou’s elegant hand, the envelope read: Sir Thomas Whitely—12 Beauchamp Place, London S.W. 3. Kindly deliver in person.
Mike fidgeted with the envelope for several moments. He bit his lip as the impulse overwhelmed him.
He ripped the seal open and his fingers dug inside nervously. There was one small folded sheet of paper. He sat up and unfolded the sheet.
In Stergiou’s fine writing, there was a list of names and cities. The reverse side was blank.
He looked at the names listed. Obviously not Greeks—if they were, this was some type of code. Mike was a bit deflated. By this time he expected no less than some secret formula....
He read down the list of names:
Jon Petersen, Johannesburg, S.A.
Lorrie Daniels, Sydney
Elmer Jackson, Montreal
Sarah Moonstone, Montreal
Adam Piper, Montreal
David Main, Christchurch, N.Z.
And on down the list—names—cities.
Mike was burning with curiosity. Who were these people and what was the meaning of the list? Each new guess only made him the more curious. Well, one thing was certain. Whoever they were was of extreme importance to both the British and the Germans.
The people who were after these names certainly put no price on human life. If the names were found on him, he was as good as dead. What if the names were not on him? He might have a chance