He was conscious of something vaguely familiar. Something comforting. An odor. The same hospitable smell he had known years ago in the warm security of his grandfather’s north Arizona cabin. Woodsmoke. But somehow different. The accompanying smell of tobacco was more aromatic, slightly sweeter than the stuff his grandfather smoked in his oddly shaped briar pipe. There were other smells, essences he couldn’t identify, more pungent but curiously agreeable. Goats’ hair, milk, garlic, curds, unwashed wool clothing, aged damp wood, and least definable of all, centuries of Greek history soaked into the walls and timbered floor.
The pain returned with his awareness. From the base of his skull it gnawed all the way over to the back of his eyeballs, a cruel monster trying to destroy the inside walls of his head. He partially remembered now. He’d taken a bad bump when he was attacked after landing. But there was something later. The recollections were surfacing slowly, dredged up from some remote uncontrollable area. Something during the attack on the Germans. An explosion in his ear. His hand moved awkwardly to his head. A bandage. He squeezed open his eyes. Dark. No, not entirely. Light to one side, flickering in a fireplace. He tried to focus on the scene. Too much. He closed his eyes again.
“You almost bought the farm, kid.” He knew the voice. Only one person could make such a wonderfully dumb comment.
Ritter forced opened his eyes again. It was Rogers, hovering over him, grinning like he had lost his mind or recovered a friend.
“Couldn’t have been much closer,” Rogers was saying. “Looks like you’re going to make it. It’s the advantage of having concrete instead of brains.”
Ritter groaned and closed his eyes. Maybe Rogers would take the hint.
“Hey, Melody,” he could hear Rogers saying, strangely detached and distant, almost unrelated. “Looks like lover boy here is coming around.”
Ritter opened his eyes again as the girl bent over him, wiping his face carefully with a warm moist cloth. “Something to drink?” she was asking.
Ritter wanted to nod. The effort was too painful. “Water,” he whispered.
She got up and quickly brought back a crudely made tin cup of cold spring water. Placing a soft hand gently behind his head, she raised him slightly and put the cup to his lips. It had a curious metallic taste. The cool, clean sensation in his mouth followed through to his parched throat. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.
“Not too much,” she said. “Not yet.”
What did she know? She wasn’t the one who was thirsty. But he was too weary to argue. She moved him slowly back to his pillow, and he fell asleep.
* * *
Two days later Ritter was able to get up for the first time and make his own way out to the smelly little house in the back. The oppressive headache that threatened to paralyze him was receding. He was able to focus his eyes without effort now.
The charred wall above the fireplace where he’d lain testified to the age of the farmhouse. It had been at least several years since the walls had been whitewashed. A thatch roof covered the large open room that served as a combination living-dining-and-bedroom. A black curtain covered the single window near the front door. Rogers and Devan had disappeared, leaving Ritter totally in the care of the girl who had eagerly adopted him. She had been sleeping on a mat on the floor near his bed, a fact that flattered as well as aroused him.
“Where are they?” he asked.
She shrugged. She didn’t miss them.
He fingered the bandage, a surprisingly professional dressing. “How did I get here?”
“We carried you. At first we thought the Germans had killed you. Your head was bleeding and you did not move. But the Englishman shot the German before he could shoot you again.”
“Devan saved me, huh?”
“You don’t like this Englishman, do you? I don’t think your loud friend does either.”
“Ah, he’s okay, I guess. Just don’t know him very well. I don’t think he really wanted us to come along.”
“He does not like us. I don’t think he trusts Andropolous. Andropolous will not trust him.”
“Who’s Andropolous?”
“The leader in this area. He is very important. He is fighting not only the Germans but also for Greek democracy.” She was obviously making references to the leftists Rogers talked about.
For the rest of the day Ritter rested in the large main room of the farmhouse. The girl was never very far from him, responding to every movement or need.
“Someday I want to go,” she said. “To California. What is it like?”
He wasn’t sure what to tell her. Finally he spoke of the beaches, the deserts, the majestic mountains, and the fertile green valleys. The coastal highway to Monterey and Big Sur. San Diego, San Francisco, and L.A. Hollywood. She hung on every word. He enjoyed his own stories. They produced nostalgia, but curiously no homesickness.
During the day a number of people wandered in. They would glance at him, sometimes smiling or making a polite bow in his direction. An old woman dressed from head to foot in black worked endlessly in the kitchen, just off the main room. The old crone smiled toothlessly when she brought him food but did not speak beyond an unintelligible grunt in reply to his thanks.
Ritter kept worrying about Devan and Rogers. They obviously couldn’t hang around, waiting for him while the war went on.
A distant out-of-place rumble interrupted the stillness. Cars. The girl was instantly on her feet. She scurried to the window, drawing the curtain back slightly. “Germans,” she whispered.
Ritter reached for his M3. He was in no condition to run. “House-to-house search,” she hissed. She grabbed Ritter’s hand and pulled him toward the fireplace. “Here,” she pointed, indicating he should lie down. She quickly covered him with a blanket, then something heavier. He realized she was stacking wood over him.
A loud rap at the door. The muffled sounds reaching him indicated two or three men in hobnail boots. They crashed around for a few minutes, coming near him several times. Tension exploded in his throat. A sneeze was building. He tried to stop breathing. Then silence. His instincts told him not to move. A distant sound of engines cranking up. He could sense the wood being removed. He sneezed violently. The dust was too much. She laughed in relief at his timing.
After an evening meal of lamb cooked over a spit in the large open fireplace, he fell asleep thinking about the Germans, the San Diego beaches, and the willing, eager eyes of the girl. She was obviously interested.
“How do you do it, kid?” he heard Rogers saying. Ritter opened his eyes to find Rogers standing beside the bed. He sat up.
“You’re looking better than I expected. How you feeling?”
“Okay, Whip.”
“These people think you’re a hero. They know you saved Melody’s life by risking your own. She is the daughter of a well-to-do Edessa merchant who has been backing the leftists. This is apparently their farm. But be careful, sonny. You don’t want to get involved.”
“Anything you say, preacher.” Ritter smiled. “Where’ve you been? Where’s Devan? What’s going on?”
“Easy, easy. One at a time. Devan has made contact with the monarchists at Kilkis, trying to arrange some sort of reconciliation between the two factions in this area. He talked to Cairo on the radio and they’ve given additional orders. He’s set up a meeting for sometime next week. In the meantime, he wants to go out and look for the gold shipment the Brits lost. Think you can make it?”
“Yeah, Whip. No sweat.”
“You’re lying kid. But I can’t leave you here any longer. The krauts have come through once, they’ll come through again. They have patrols out everywhere trying to find us. They were pretty upset about us knocking off their bunch. They burned the village where it happened and shot a couple of local shepherds in reprisal. If you can walk, we’re taking you out. I’ve convinced Devan to wait until tomorrow morning. Give you another night’s sleep.”
Rogers curled up in a blanket near the fireplace. A fat log thrown on the fire just before they turned in burned all night. At dawn the ashes still glowed as Rogers woke Ritter. “Okay, sunshine. Your holiday is over.”
Melanie also was up. “You’re going?” It was not really a question.
“My general commands.” Ritter smiled.
“I will go with you.”
“Sorry,” said Rogers. “Not this time.”
Ritter glanced at Rogers in brief appeal. “Devan says no,” said Rogers firmly.
She wanted to argue but knew it was useless. Her lower lip signaled her open disappointment. As they gathered their gear, she gave Ritter an old wool cap to pull over his head to conceal the bandage. Impulsively she grabbed Ritter’s hand, leaned forward, and kissed him on the side of the face. He wanted to grab her and kiss her properly, but the time wasn’t right. He settled for an encouraging wink—a signal they shared some marvelous secret. Her responding glance released a wave of expectation through him. A definite promise.
She was still standing in the doorway when they reached the ridge top and descended into the neighboring valley. As they crossed the ridge, a German patrol drove into the village below.
“We could have taken her, Whip,” said Ritter.
“Devan wouldn’t tolerate it. She’s with the Communists. He’s afraid if we locate the gold, she’d tell the leftists where it is. The Brits want it all to go to the monarchists.”
“If we find it.”
“If we find it,” echoed Rogers.
* * *
They found Devan waiting in a small village farmhouse with a chubby middle-aged Greek, apparently a guide assigned by EDES.
Devan greeted them stiffly. “Hello, Rogers. Sergeant Ritter. Glad to see you on your feet again.”
“Thanks to you, I gather.”
“Not at all, Sergeant.” Turning to the Greek, he introduced the man. “This is Milo.”
“Hiya, chief,” said Milo brightly. Devan grimaced at the Greek’s obvious American accent. “Where you boys from? I lived twenty years in Brooklyn. Finally deported when they decided I was an illegal immigrant.”
Rogers laughed, the kind of laugh that usually swept others along with it. “All this way out to East Jesus to find a Fulton Fish Market exile.”
Milo didn’t understand. “Vegetables, chief. My uncle owns a vegetable store near the fish market.” Rogers was still laughing. The thought of Devan stuck with a Brooklyn Greek was too good to be real.
The Greek was the proud owner of an ancient Dodge pickup he used to haul farm products to Athens and other points in the south.
“Despite the petrol rationing,” said Devan, trying to return a note of seriousness to the conversation, “Milo has ways of getting fuel. Also, as part of the food-delivery system to the German high command, he has a pass that will take the pickup through German checkpoints.”
“What about us?” said Rogers.
“Milo knows the system well, and the Germans know him. If we move at certain periods over certain routes, there is a good chance of avoiding the known checks. There are not enough Germans in this part of the mountains to control anything but the larger towns.”
“If we’re stopped, we can always hide under the turnips,” said Ritter.
“Where are we going?” Rogers asked.
“Ptolemais,” Devan said. “The truck carrying the gold shipment was last seen there by a New Zealand unit. It never reached the checkpoint at Kozani, so we must assume it disappeared between those two places.”
“What about those in charge of the shipment? The driver? Guards?”
“The records are incomplete,” said Devan. “In the haste of the general retreat, brigade records were either partially lost or improperly handled. We know there were two officers and an NCO. Unfortunately, both officers are now dead. They were killed before a proper search could be established. The enlisted man has disappeared. The records don’t even show who he was. One of the officers signed for the shipment. The name of the enlisted man was never entered in any of the surviving records. It’s a blank.”
“What do they think happened to the gold?”
“Best guess is the three men got stuck in refugee traffic and were burned out by German planes, or maybe they had an accident and had to abandon the truck.”
“You really don’t know what happened to this stuff, do you?” said Rogers. “How are you going to look for it? This war won’t last long enough for you to search under every bush and rock in northern Greece.”
“We’ll survey the basic route and see what we can find. Look for abandoned or wrecked army vehicles. We can ask around and see if any of the locals have information that would help.”
“The odds of finding this gold are roughly the same as finding the good fairy,” said Rogers.
“That’s not your concern, Lieutenant,” grumbled Devan, unhappy with the implied criticism.
“Another Brit in search of never-never land,” Rogers said softly to Ritter. “Rampant Peter Panism.”
Devan pretended he didn’t hear. He had his orders. It didn’t matter what the insolent Yank thought. They badly needed the gold to finance EDES operations and to give the rightists a financial boost over the Communists.
Milo pulled up in his shabby orange pickup. “Okay, you guys, let’s haul ass,” he said. The vehicle looked like it was already ten thousand miles beyond its limit, but in a war, one couldn’t be too choosy.
“My uncle drives a Caddy,” said Milo. “Little snazzier than this heap. But I manage to keep it glued together. Never let me down yet. Hop in, you guys.”
Devan winced visibly and crawled into the front cab with Milo. He was obviously not excited by the prospect of spending several hours talking nonstop with the irrepressible Greek.
Rogers and Ritter settled into the back. It was half-filled with lettuce heads. “Guess this is what will be known as my salad days,” said Ritter.
“You’re obviously feeling better, kid. Hope you can stand all this. The lettuce head in the front is leading us off into a real weed patch. But what the hell. We got nothing else better to do.”
“Except stay alive.”
“Look who’s talking. You don’t seem to be trying overly hard, kid. By the way, I think that girl Melody’s sweet on you.”
“Her name is Melanie,” said Ritter slightly defensively.
“She’s definitely got her eye on you,” said Rogers, ignoring the correction. “Don’t see why she should find a kid like you any more … ah, interesting than a seasoned stud like myself.”
“Musta heard you’re married, Whip.”
“Yeah, that must be it. You didn’t tell her, did you, kid?”
The pickup jolted along the dirt roads for several hours, hitting every possible pothole and crater. They passed through a number of villages without encountering any Germans, and Ritter wondered how the Wehrmacht could control the area, being so conspicuously absent.
The rough movement and constant bouncing were exhausting. Ritter could feel his headache crawling back behind his eyes. Rogers leaned against the lettuce heads and dozed.
At dusk they pulled into a village where Milo appeared to know everyone. After a brief discussion with a sharp-eyed local elder, they were taken into one of the farmhouses, fed, and given places near the fire for the night.
“It ain’t the Waldorf, boys,” said Milo. “But ya can’t beat the price.”
At dawn they were awakened by the lean-faced old man, and after a cold-water shave and a breakfast of warm mountain bread, drove out to the two-lane road running between Ptolemais and Kozani. Ritter was feeling better after another night’s sleep. He could feel his strength and confidence gradually returning.
They drove along the road for less than ten minutes before finding the first truck skeleton. The vehicle had obviously been damaged in an explosion and burned. But the significance of the find was quickly dissipated by a close inspection. The wreckage had been given a thorough going-over by scavengers. Everything that could be pulled away from the frame—including wiring, the engine block, and the axles—had been.
“Picked clean,” said Rogers. “I have a funny feeling about your shipment, Devan. If it was left behind on something like this, we aren’t going to find it.”
Devan said nothing. They continued along the highway, stopping at more than twenty rusting, burned-out wrecks. In each case, the story was the same. At the end of the day they were back at the old man’s farmhouse.
“Impossible,” muttered Devan.
“That gold was absorbed into the local economy well over a year ago,” said Rogers. “I doubt if you’ll get any Greeks to step forward to offer it to the monarchist war effort.”
* * *
Four days and several dozen burned-out vehicles later, Devan gave up.
They returned to the small village of Kali shortly after dark.
Melanie came to the door. “Brian,” she shouted, more exuberantly than she perhaps intended. She greeted Rogers and Devan, who had left Milo in a neighboring village. Milo hadn’t wanted to venture into such a leftist stronghold.
“Andropolous is here,” she said. “He has been waiting for you.”
Andropolous was an enormously sturdy man, just over six feet, tall for a Greek, commanding attention with a powerful, confident voice and an overwhelming sense of presence. He was the kind of man who inevitably dominated any situation.
He was the first Greek Ritter had met who didn’t look silly in the baggy peasant trousers the mountain men wore. Andropolous wouldn’t look silly wearing anything. Beautiful white teeth flashed under a bushy black mustache and against his swarthy complexion, evidence of the years he had spent in the mountains.
“I am sorry I was not here to receive you earlier,” he said, extending his strong right hand. “I gather you had a rather dramatic arrival. We are very pleased to welcome representatives of our great allies.”
He motioned them to join him around the fire, which blazed cheerily. Melanie produced glasses of bitter-tasting retsina wine and took a spot beside Ritter. The old crone in the kitchen brought lamb for them to eat. Delicious. Ritter had not enjoyed a meal so much since leaving Cairo.
“I must apologize again for the circumstances surrounding your arrival,” said Andropolous. “Unfortunately, EDES refuses to share or cooperate with us. They did not tell us you were coming. In the past few months German agents have dropped into the hills here to spy on our groups and damage our operations. If they had only told us it was you, the reception would have been much different. Much trouble would have been spared.”
“We are frankly not pleased by this,” said Devan. “His Majesty’s government supports a united Greece that will fight the Germans. This is no time for civil strife. The job is to throw the Hun out. If you remain divided, it can’t be accomplished.”
“I fully agree. But we must also protect ourselves. It is a basic matter of survival, for Greece and for our movement. The EDES refuses us funds or weapons. Last month they murdered one of our men during a mission to Athens. There was no need to kill this man. This is an act that must be answered for. We must have revenge.”
“I heard about that,” said Devan, aggravated that he was being drawn into a pointless discussion he didn’t want and couldn’t control. “EDES said the killing was a personal act, not a political one. They claim the man had been involved in the shooting of one of their own a week or so earlier.”
“A lie. Typical of the way EDES distorts the truth to suit their own selfish needs.”
“We can’t solve this tonight,” said Devan. “But I urge you to put this behind you. If you let these incidents grow, there will be more killing. Who will benefit? You? EDES? The Allies? No. Only the Germans. Is that what you want? Do you want the Germans on Greek soil forever?”
Andropolous breathed in deeply. “We are in a position not unlike you Americans before your revolution,” he said, turning his appeal momentarily to Rogers and Ritter. “But we are not only under the yoke of a foreign power, but also of a monarchy we do not want. Tyranny is corrupting our land, the very land where democracy first flourished. The time has come for the Greek people to rise up and restore the democratic system to our homeland. The monarchists are interested only in holding on to their own narrow power. The king means favors and riches for a privileged few. We want to open the society as you Americans have done to all classes.”
Rogers and Ritter were openly intrigued. If they were meant to be impressed, swayed to Andropolous’ side, they were.
Devan was not just unimpressed, he was disgusted. For him, it was empty talk. He made little attempt to disguise his feelings. He could see the Greek was getting through to the Americans and that irritated him further. Communists never hesitated to use fancy words when it suited their aims. In the end it always came back to the same thing—dictatorship run by a party elite where individual workers had far fewer rights than in any European kingdom. These Americans were too naive to understand.
The argument between Andropolous and Devan continued for more than an hour. Ritter’s attention wandered dramatically when he realized the warm feeling on his leg was Melanie’s hand. He stole a glance at her. She was looking down toward the floor as though she was deep in thought following the debate, but the trace of a shy smile on her lips confirmed that talk was the furthest thing from her mind. He slipped his own hand over hers. She wiggled her fingers in response.
“All right,” Andropolous was saying. “I will attend the meeting. We will cooperate in the attack on the train. We will show you we are not opposed to doing our part. We favor cooperation. But we demand to be treated equally, and the next drop of weapons and munitions and money must be divided fairly with us.”
“That depends on how much you are willing to cooperate,” said Devan. “It’s late. I have much to do tomorrow. I’m turning in.”
Ritter felt Melaine squeeze his hand again. He knew he wouldn’t get any sleep.
As soon as the sound of snoring drifted over from Andropolous, she was beside him. She placed her index finger on her lips and motioned him to follow her. They made their way quietly through the kitchen area out a rear door into the crisp cool night.
They silently walked to the barn less than fifty yards behind the house. It was filled with freshly cut hay stocked for the coming winter.
Melanie was wearing a rough brown dress that hung loosely over her body. As they entered the barn, Ritter drew her close and pulled her face to his. Kissing her, he moved his hand onto the upper part of her dress. Fumbling with the buttons, he opened them and slipped his hand over her bare breasts. They were firm with youth and excitement. She awkwardly pushed herself against him, frantically biting his lips and tongue. They sank into the warm, soft hay together.
She writhed and twisted beneath him, yielding to his every move. Ritter had scored many times with the beach girls in San Diego, but never with a girl so ferociously passionate as this one.
Afterward, she nestled against him as he played with the delicate cross around her neck. It was a beautiful artifact, exquisitely crafted with the highest-quality silver.
“Brian?”
“Hmmm?”
“Did you like it?” she asked anxiously.
“Very much.”
“You are not angry?”
“Angry?”
“It was the first time for me.”
“I know.”
She blushed. “I love you,” she said.
Ritter was not prepared for this. “I love you too,” he said. It seemed like the right thing to say.