The pilot jammed the throttle forward, careening the flimsy Blenheim down the moonlit runway. Swaying clumsily from side to side, the heavily fueled craft hurtled nearly to the end of the concrete strip before the nose lifted hesitantly upward into the warm desert night. The city was soon twinkling below as the plane circled while steadily gaining altitude. Sharply illuminated by the moonlight as the plane passed overhead, the pyramids would be the last familiar landmark before the aircraft returned from the Mediterranean and beyond.
Handed the sealed flight plan only an hour earlier, the pilot still knew little about the mission. The three darkly clothed men in the rear were to be dropped over an area near Edessa in northern Greece. They carried only light weapons, some basic supplies, and of course parachutes. Undoubtedly another sabotage team belonging to Whitehall’s hush-hush Special Operations Executive. He’d spoken only briefly with the three when they boarded the craft. Two of them were Yanks. The English lieutenant, however, appeared to be in charge.
The last-minute weather report indicated rough flying over the northern coast of the Mediterranean and all the way over Greece to the target zone. A mixed blessing. Bad weather, particularly at night, was always dangerous. But it greatly reduced the chances of being caught and blasted down by fast-moving German night fighter patrols.
The pilot ambled back into the dark cargo section to check on his three passengers, still trying to make themselves comfortable in the narrow canvas bucket seats. The volatile smell of aviation fuel had nearly evaporated.
“You chaps can smoke now if you wish,” he said.
“Thanks,” said the English lieutenant, who immediately fished a packet of cigarettes from beneath his dark blue wool sweater. American Lucky Strikes. The pilot hadn’t seen one of those in weeks. Must have gotten them from the two Americans.
“Once we get over the water,” said the pilot, “it’s going to get a bit bumpy. Far as we can tell, there’s turbulence over most of Greece tonight. It’ll get worse over the mountains, but with luck we’ll find a clear spot near the drop zone so you can get down safely.”
“Always wanted to leap out at fifteen thousand feet into a raging storm at night,” said the younger American. “One of the things I haven’t done yet.”
“There’s a lot of things you haven’t done yet, sonny,” said the other American. “This jump couldn’t be half as dangerous as the one I had to make in Georgetown last year. Second-story window. Husband came home early. Barely had time to get my pants on. No parachutes either.”
The pilot chuckled. Usual Yank outrage. Always amusing. “Well, have a pleasant flight, lads. Unfortunately, you’ll be flying in the dark. Seems we’ve blown a fuse, so we have no regular lights back here. Sorry about that. We’ll alert you about twenty minutes before drop time. Give you a bit to final check the gear and all that.”
“Thanks, Jack,” said the younger American.
The English lieutenant, about to light his cigarette, flashed a stern look in the direction of the American but caught himself before speaking. No respect for rank. Typical. The pilot, seemingly unoffended, turned and walked back to the cockpit. He closed the door behind him, leaving the cargo section in virtual darkness.
The flare of the wooden match briefly illuminated Lieutenant Timmy Devan’s face. Two small eyes shifted nervously over a bushy handlebar mustache which covered most of his mouth. He briefly saw the two cocky, clean-shaven Americans as he lit the cigarette, which glowed like an orange blip in the blackness. He hadn’t been amused when they told him he’d be taking the Yanks along. This part of the world had nothing to do with them. Wasn’t their patch. Greece was strictly a British concern. He hadn’t lost any time letting them know how he felt. Group told him to mind his own business, reminding him the Americans were helping to finance the operation. He had no choice or say in the matter.
They were the first OSS types he’d met. Not so impressive. Grudgingly he admitted they were first-class physical specimens. But both terribly unmilitary, with a shocking lack of basic discipline. It was a wonder the Americans were able to run any sort of military operations at all.
The older man, an officer, who actually permitted the younger one, an enlisted subordinate, to call him by his nickname, was almost a Punch cartoon stereotype—wild, loud-talking, and overfilled with self-confidence. His broad face was as typically American as a cowboy in one of those awful Hollywood films. Women undoubtedly found him attractive.
The younger one, a Sergeant Ritter, was not quite as boisterous but every bit as cheeky. He carried an eternally lighthearted look in his bright blue eyes that said as much about him as anything. He couldn’t be more than nineteen, young for a mission as tough and sensitive as this, and obviously inexperienced. God, what had they done to him, sticking him with this pair? These two would have to prove they could hold up their end of things. If they couldn’t, he wouldn’t be responsible.
The three men dozed uneasily in the clumsily designed bucket seats as the plane glided over the northern Egyptian coast and out over the Mediterranean. The rough vibration and noise of the prop engines competed with energy-sapping high-altitude cold to make them thoroughly uncomfortable. Increasingly, as the plane neared the Greek coast and the outer edges of the turbulence, it began to bounce around, as the pilot had warned.
“Hey, Whip, you awake?” said Ritter, the young American.
“Yeah.”
“Remember that crate they brought us across the Atlantic in? At least it had real seats and warm coffee. And lights.”
“We aren’t flying Pan Am now, sonny. This is the best the Brits can do.”
Without warning the Blenheim shook violently, lurching downward several hundred feet. An unexpected air pocket. Only the seat belts hooked around them held them in their places.
Devan, the Englishman, fumbled for another cigarette. In the darkness they couldn’t see his trembling hands. His knuckles pressed white against the seat edge. He didn’t attempt to speak across the cabin. Even if he had wanted to, he wouldn’t have trusted his voice.
“Those weather reports are always right at the wrong time,” said Ritter. It was as far as he would go in admitting his own uneasiness in front of Rogers.
“Don’t worry, sonny. It means the krauts won’t come up after us. We’re safer in a storm like this than we would be on a nice clear night. Never hear us or find us in this soup.”
Ritter stroked the cold barrel of the M3 submachine gun he clutched across his lap. It was the latest design, and he and Rogers had each been issued one just before leaving the States for Cairo. The thirty-round clip could be emptied in under five seconds giving them an enormous amount of concentrated close-range firepower. The .45-caliber delivered plenty of bite, making the weapon as deadly as any other hand-carried weapon anywhere. But in the air against the weather or planes he couldn’t see, it was useless. Rubbing it somehow made him feel better. He had fired the weapon well in training and enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him. He wondered how it would feel to finally use it, to kill with it.
The plane continued to bounce wildly. Ritter’s stomach flipped over as he realized the English lieutenant was vomiting onto the floor almost opposite him. He tried to ignore both the retching noise and odor by concentrating on the roar of the engines. The soul-damaging vibration. The chilling cold.
Rogers was speaking to him again over the noise. “That’s the guy who’s going to lead us to the gold.”
“Makes me sick to think about it,” said Ritter.
Rogers laughed. “I know how the poor devil feels. My kid brother used to get carsick all the time. He’d puke on the backseat or out the window as we were driving along. Used to piss my mother off. She’d have to wipe it up. My dad always pretended he hadn’t noticed it very much or had to check the engine so he didn’t have to get too involved in the cleanup.”
“I’m too cold to be sick,” said Ritter. “I think my stomach may be frozen solid. We should have brought some of that Cairo heat with us.”
“Yeah, they just have to figure out how to bottle it,” said Rogers.
“Say, Whip, how do you think we got tabbed for this one?”
“Who knows, sonny? Donovan doesn’t exactly confide these things in me. We’re just a couple of bodies on his organizational charts, pins on a map somewhere. Donovan and the Brits made a deal to find some gold the Brits lost in Greece, and Donovan wanted to make sure he was represented when the loot was divvied up.”
“That’s what they said. But there’s more, isn’t there?”
“There always is, kid. There’s always more.”
“Well?”
“He wants us to see what these Brits are up to. The Greeks are already at each other’s throats, and the Brits are in the middle, unable to keep them apart. Donovan thinks the Brits may be playing politics instead of fighting the Germans. Churchill wants to make sure the monarchists come out on top at the end of the war. Wouldn’t be in keeping with the British plan for things if royalty became a casualty. Might give somebody else ideas elsewhere. But the leftist power is growing, and already they are an important fighting force along with the Communists. We need them to fight the krauts. Hell, that’s all we care about.”
Ritter, just out of high school in San Diego, knew little about politics or Greece. Weren’t they all on the same side fighting the Germans? The political quarrels made no sense. He didn’t want to get involved in that sort of stuff. That was for the generals and the fat-bellied politicians. The plane bucked violently again. Ritter’s stomach dropped and churned uncomfortably. A sour taste invaded his mouth. He concentrated on the noise and constant vibration. The endless cold. He didn’t want to puke. Not in front of Whip.
A glimmer of light came from the front. The pilot opened the cockpit door and walked back toward them. He sniffed, noting one of them had been sick. “You chaps okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” said the English lieutenant. He hoped the pilot didn’t think it was him.
“I wouldn’t recommend you as an egg or fine-porcelain hauler,” said Rogers. “This thing sounds like it’s going to shake apart.” Ritter couldn’t agree more.
“Been a bit rough,” admitted the pilot. He wasn’t sure which of them had been sick. “If I’d known you chaps were so sensitive, we’d have tried harder to keep it steady.” The sarcasm was thinly veiled. “We’re about fifteen minutes from the drop zone. Just passed over the worst of the mountains. Weather ahead looks a bit better. When the red light comes on, you have two minutes. When the green light shows, out you go. You’ve got to move quickly. We’re only going to make one pass over the drop zone. Otherwise the Germans will be able to pinpoint you. As it is, they’ll have a pretty fair idea of what’s going on. Isn’t picture-taking weather, you know. Good luck.”
“At least the trip down’ll be smoother,” said Rogers.
The pilot returned, to the cockpit as the three men began double-checking their harness straps, weapons, and other gear. It was a useful way to soak up some of the last-minute tension that built up before any jump, but particularly one as uncertain and potentially perilous as this one.
Ritter kept running his hands over the M3. It couldn’t help him now, but there was nothing else to do.
Rogers untied one of his boots and relaced it. Deciding the other one needed some imaginary adjustment, he loosened it and laced it back up.
Devan discovered he had vomited onto his boots, spoiling the bright military shine he had given them before takeoff. Blasted. He hoped the two Yanks wouldn’t notice. He could clean them up after getting down.
The red light flashed on. Devan caught himself as he gagged again. The tension, rough weather, and fear had affected him worse than ever. He’d done too many of these. Once below the silk, he would be all right, he kept telling himself, it was just rough going now.
Ritter and Rogers glanced at each other in the bright red light as they all stood up. Rogers winked. “Always wanted an autumn holiday in Greece, kid.”
Ritter offered a small grin. Rogers was more nervous than he cared to admit. It didn’t matter. Whip couldn’t be more scared than Ritter himself.
The copilot walked back. “One minute,” he said. “It’s raining out there, but the wind is not as bad as we thought. We’ve dropped down below the cloud cover to just over three thousand feet. You should be able to see the ground all the way down. There’s a signal fire. Good luck.” He shoved out his fist, showing them his thumb.
The green light beckoned them. The three shuffled toward the side door as the copilot pushed it open. Attacking his own anxieties, Devan took the initiative, leaping first into the cold wet wind. Rogers followed him, and then Ritter. The mandatory count and then the rip cord. A heart-stopping delay, then the comforting rush of silk as the parachute puffed out and formed the lovely umbrella overhead with a reassuring jerk that grabbed deep in the groin.
It was raining harder than Ritter expected. To one side, as the copilot promised, he could see the marker fire as he and the two chutes below drifted toward it.
Above, the Blenheim faded into the cloudy distance, turning back toward the warm comforts and security of Cairo. Who needed it? This was it. He’d waited a long time for this awesome, lonely moment. Finally some real adventure. Some action. And then suddenly he wished it had never come. He could distinctly see flashes. Small-arms fire popped below. Perhaps aimed up at him.
The wet, stony earth rushed up and slammed into Ritter, jarring him thoroughly. Stunned, he fell roughly, bruising his leg and arm on the sharp rocks that covered the clearing. The wind gusted frantically into his still-billowing parachute, threatening to drag him across the treacherous clearing. With a determined effort he fought his way to his feet and charged at the chute, pulling the cords in and finally collapsing it. The sound of small-arms fire was now only sporadic. He rubbed his hand across his water-streaked face, trying to clear his eyes. The rain was steady. He was already drenched. And cold. He estimated he had landed about eight hundred yards from the fire, which he could just see over the edge of a small rise. No sign of Rogers or the English lieutenant.
Rifle shots about one hundred yards to one side in a clump of trees and heavy underbrush startled him. Crouching quickly, he began to untwist the M3 and its strap from around his body. A scraping sound behind him. He pivoted. Too late. A dark figure leaped at him, jamming him back onto the stony ground, knocking the wind out of him. The strap of the M3 was partially caught over his right shoulder and arm, restricting his movements. His fast-moving attacker pinned his left arm, shoving a forearm against his throat. Struggling to get at least one arm free, Ritter managed to wiggle his right hand down to the broad-bladed knife strapped to his boot. The pressure on his throat persisted, but finally he reached the knife, yanking it free with a single fluid motion. He made a desperate move to bring it around into the back of his attacker. Without warning a sharp painful rap against his hand and wrist broke his grip on the knife, which clattered onto a stone. There was another harsh blow, then blackness.
No sound except the wind. The cold rain. An awful ache in the back of his head and eyes. Sharp searing sensations in his hand. Pain. He was alive. He slowly opened his eyes, rubbing the throbbing knot on his head. No blood. Skin not broken. Two dark figures loomed over him. He was shaking badly. It wasn’t just the wet cold. The large, stockier one was pointing a rifle at him. Ritter carefully edged his hand down to his boot to confirm what he knew. The knife was gone. So was the M3. No sign of Rogers or Devan. The sound of gunfire had stopped. Fantastic. Two seconds on the ground and he was already a prisoner. Some commando. What would Rogers say?
The man with the rifle spoke, a strange guttural sound.
“I only speak English,” said Ritter.
“English?” said the other. The voice stunned him. Wildly out of place. It was the voice of a girl. “You are English?” she said.
“Californian.”
“America?”
“As apple pie,” he said wearily.
The girl spoke to the man in Greek and turned to Ritter. “I am sorry,” she said. It almost sounded as if she meant it. Her accent was strong but not unpleasant. “We did not know you were Americans. The Germans have been dropping agents into the hills around here.”
“Who was doing the shooting?” Ritter rubbed his temples, trying to neutralize the distracting ache.
“We were.”
“At us?”
“Bandits.”
“Bandits?”
“Reactionaries. EDES. We followed them out here tonight and watched them light the fire. We heard the plane. Then the shooting started. We saw you coming down. We assumed you were Germans.”
“Christ, Alice.”
“Alice?”
“A friend of mine with a pet white rabbit and lots of interesting friends.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Doesn’t matter. Mind if I get up?”
“Oh, I am so sorry. Please let me help.”
“Don’t bother.” Ritter climbed slowly to his feet. The chill of the wet predawn cold was soaking into his bones. His head ached badly. His arms and legs were sore from the landing and subsequent fall. His right hand also hurt—two fingers were badly bruised. He thought briefly of the warm rolling surf in San Diego. The girls. The bronzing sun. This was madness.
They walked about a half-mile before he saw the dying fire, sizzling in the steady drizzle. A group of about ten figures clustered around, absorbing as much of the diminishing warmth as they could collect. Shadows danced wildly across them as they held out their palms toward the flickering embers. He could now make out Rogers and Devan among the craggy-faced Greek mountain men. The two appeared to be unharmed, enjoying the fire with the others. Even from a distance the Greeks looked tough. In other times they were peaceful farmers and shepherds, hardworking men who spent their entire lives quietly in the outdoors with their crops and sheep. Now they were partisans, guerrillas banded together in the fight against a common enemy. The girl shouted at the group in Greek. He understood her to make some reference to Americans.
Rogers and Devan, he suddenly realized, were arguing. “You Brits are great organizers, Devan.”
“Don’t be stupid, Rogers. These are Communists. They obviously chased off the people we were supposed to meet.”
“What the hell difference does it make? They’re Greeks, aren’t they? They’re fighting the krauts, aren’t they?”
“God, you Yanks are naive,” Devan shouted. His mustache quivered with indignation. Why in God’s name had they stuck him with these clumsy clods?
With a mixture of amusement and bewilderment, the large Greek in baggy black trousers who appeared to be in charge watched Rogers and Devan argue. He also was eyeing Rogers’ M3 and Devan’s Sten. Ritter noticed the Greeks carried bolt-action rifles that were out-of-date at least one war ago. The man nodded at the girl.
“We cannot stay here any longer,” she said. She was apparently the only one among the Greeks who spoke English. “It is not safe. We must go now. It will be dawn soon.”
“You don’t have much choice, Devan,” said Rogers. “Unless of course you’re going to hang around out here in the rain and wait for your unseen friends to come back, or maybe win the war all by yourself.”
Devan glowered at him. “Just remember who’s in charge here, Rogers. This is a British show.”
They moved out, with the big Greek leading the group.
“Welcome to Greece, sonny,” said Rogers. “What happened to you? You look awful.”
Ritter told him, then asked, “What are you guys arguing about anyway?”
“Politics, kid. The Greeks are badly split between those who support the return of the king and those who want to set up a socialist democracy at the end of the war. There have been shooting incidents and killings between the two sides. Some people think there could be a civil war when this is all over. Devan and the Brits thought they had arranged for us to be met by EDES, the pro-monarchy group. But apparently this bunch turned up and chased them off. So we are now with leftist partisans instead of the royalists. Devan’s upset because he’s supposed to be liaisoning with and helping the monarchists. The gold is supposed to go to them. He doesn’t want anything to do with these people.”
“But what about the Germans?”
“Both groups are supposedly fighting the krauts in a common effort. But between you and me, kid, they are much more worried about each other. They figure either the Brits or the Americans will eventually run the krauts out for them. Then the real fighting can begin.”
They walked for more than an hour along a series of ridges through pine forests and around small sleeping villages. As the rain stopped, the black sky gradually turned gray and then split wide open with a magnificent burst of orange fire.
“You like our Greek sunrise?”
The girl had stepped up beside him. In the warm morning light, he could see her face for the first time. Her dark eyes were round and surprisingly soft, even compelling. Her muddy, loose-fitting dark trousers and jacket could not hide her youthful figure. She walked with the kind of athletic grace that cannot be learned. He felt himself softening toward her. He nodded.
“You are not mad at me?”
“Mad?”
“For knocking you down.”
“You came damned close to adding a steel rib.”
She laughed, the warmest sound he had heard all morning. “You mean the knife?”
“I don’t think you would have found it so funny.”
“How is it you Americans say? All is well that stops well.”
“Yeah, I guess. No blood. No tears.”
The girl looked at him again. She liked what she saw. Ritter was fair-haired, with the beautiful tanned skin Europeans acquire in the summer. His blue eyes sparkled despite his obvious weariness and discomfort, a great contrast with the dull dark-eyed men in her village. Ritter had a casual, dashing air about him. He was obviously his own man. She liked Americans. She certainly liked this one.
“What is your name?” she said.
“Brian, Brian Ritter…. And who are you?”
“Melanie Thouriakis.”
“What are you doing out here?”
She seemed annoyed by the question. “Fighting the Germans. And the EDES.”
“You should be in school, learning to cook or something.”
“I am eighteen,” she replied indignantly. “My country needs me.”
“It’s the fashion these days.”
“The fashion?”
“Never mind. Where are we going?”
“Sssssssst.” A sharp warning sound sliced through the morning freshness. They hurled themselves onto the ground. A motorized patrol cruised deliberately along the dirt road about 150 yards below them. A Wehrmacht officer with binoculars was scanning the hillside, obviously searching for something. The officer swept the glasses in their direction. At first he appeared to pass the glasses over their position but suddenly he swing back. The patrol stopped.
The big Greek stood up and walked down the hillside toward the Germans. He had decided to brave it out, convince the Germans he was a lone shepherd in the hills. The officer dropped the binoculars to watch the man make his way down through the scrub to the scout car. There were three cars, each filled with about five gray-uniformed men, all pointing their weapons at the Greek.
Ritter had no idea who started the shooting, but it could only be defined as murder. The old Greek caught between the two sides never had a chance. The Germans, although armed with automatic Schmeissers, had little cover and quickly collapsed under the sudden unexpected assault of concentrated fire from the group on the hill. Ritter hesitated slightly before starting to shoot. He finally opened fire, with the sound of Rogers’ M3 chattering in his ear. The confused Germans tried to jump to safety behind their vehicles, but the volume of firepower was too much for them. One of the vehicles exploded and started to burn. The fight ended quickly.
Cautiously, they made their way down the hillside to the decimated patrol. The girl was beside Ritter, carrying the Enfield she had been firing.
He had never seen a German before. He stared with fascination at the lifeless, bloodied bodies at his feet, mostly fresh-faced young men who would not have been out of place on the San Diego beaches. He had never seen anyone die before. It was an odd, disquieting feeling, not particularly pleasant. As he watched the Greeks loot the German bodies, one of them stirred, raising a pistol toward the girl. “Melanie,” Ritter shouted. He swung his M3 and fired. Click. Empty. Without thinking he lunged at the German. The movement distracted the man, who swung his Luger toward Ritter and fired just as Ritter slammed into him. A loud blast. A searing sensation burned through him. For the second time that morning, Ritter was plunged into painful darkness.