Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

Doughty explained, “They switch off every so often so each can play the leader.”

“Kalos is quite a cowboy,” she observed, finding this bid for supremacy amusing. “Have you ever seen him use those pearl-handled Colts he’s packing?”

“You noticed them, did you?” Doughty smiled. “Seems he saw a lot of American westerns before the war and fancies himself marshal in the mountains when it comes to Communists. When he’s not on a horse, he swaggers around in riding breeches, boots, and spurs. But don’t let his swagger fool you. He’s a born leader of men. He’s also the best shot I’ve ever seen.”

“Really?” asked Erin. “Dare I ask how the cowboy from EDES and the kapetanios from ELAS get along?”

“They don’t, as you can see,” Doughty answered. “The brutalities of men like Stavros Moudjouras have given the Greek Resistance a rather bloodthirsty image. That’s why we’ve checked him with a man like Kalos, equally quick with the trigger, just in case Stavros gets it in his head to try something to redeem his name in the eyes of the Communist Party.”

“You think he would?” Erin asked, realizing that Stavros was no longer simply a suspected mole but a mole with a motive.

Doughty shrugged. “Overall, I think his personal ambitions are pure, even if his movement’s are not. Fully devoted to his mission.”

“Which is?” Erin persisted.

“Oh, the usual party line,” Doughty replied. “The liberation of Greece, no less.”

A n hour later, they came over a ridge between two hills, and Erin could view the entire National Bands base spread out below: a cluster of shepherds’ huts, tents, tarps, and a stable for horses. Dominating the scenery on the near side of the camp was a gorge carved out like the sliver of the moon, encircling half the camp. Over the gorge, the andartes had built a bridge, next to which was an amphitheater-style clearing.

On the surrounding hills, Erin could pick out the silhouettes of the other andartes Doughty had placed. They greeted the arriving convoy with sporadic gunfire. Stavros raised his Sten straight up and replied with a burst of his own, laughing the whole time.

Erin looked at Doughty. “What’s that all about?”

“They’re just blazing off for the hell of it,” Doughty said. “An annoying waste of ammunition. I’ve come to my wits’ end trying to explain to them that our factories in Britain and the States aren’t working around the clock to manufacture ammunition so they can shoot it off whenever they feel like it. Or that planes get downed and ships sunk trying to get it to them. They consider themselves wild men of the mountains.”

They began crossing the wooden bridge in single file. The planks groaned under the weight of each passing horse and rider, and Erin made the mistake of looking down into the mouth of the gorge as she passed.

“A good nine hundred feet to the bottom,” Doughty said from behind. “The gorge widens as it goes out to sea, about twelve miles on the other side of the base.”

As they came down into the camp, more andartes ran along beside them to take their horses and mules. All of them stared at her with such intense curiosity that Erin began to feel nervous; she was aware of whispering and even some laughter. When she dismounted, Doughty led her toward the clearing. A fire burned in the center of the earthen floor, around which more andartes had clustered.

“Ah, food’s awaiting,” the New Zealander observed.

“At this hour?”

“The middle of the night is the middle of the day for us,” Doughty explained. “Our diet usually consists of bread and beans. The bread comes from rough maize flour, and the beans we boil in water. An infernal standard fare and the source of my eternal state of diarrhea. But tonight, because of the supply drop, I believe they’ve prepared something special.”

Erin could see that the andartes had spread a rug on the ground in front of the fire for her. “You’re not worried about that fire attracting the enemy?”

“The Krauts are done for the night,” Doughty assured her. “As long as we give the Junkers enough targets for their so-called precision bombing, they’re satisfied and go home like clockwork. Now for a quiet meal.”

As soon as they sat down, however, Erin was bombarded by questions from the curious Greeks. “What are the Allies doing in the Middle East?” they asked. “When is the invasion coming? Is Turkey coming into the war? Are you a real Royal Marine?”

Bewildered by the questions, she turned to Doughty for help.

“They demand to know everything,” he told her in English. “They don’t understand the meaning of the words ‘privileged information’ or ‘security precautions.’”

Young Michaelis offered her a piece of the strange-looking meat he was turning over the fire. It resembled a long, thin sausage.

“Kokkoretsi,” Doughty explained. “The cleansed intestine of a goat, stuffed with the choppings of the animal and some herbs and spices. A real treat.”

Erin politely declined, but Doughty joined the others in helping himself.

At that moment Stavros walked up to the fire, his huge hand holding a half-empty bottle of brandy. “Since our food isn’t delicate enough for her to digest, perhaps the brave captain would prefer something to drink?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Erin was at a loss as to how to treat such a gesture. She realized it was foolish for her to expect suffering, proud home-bred Greeks like Stavros to hide their contempt for foreigners like her, a woman no less. But she knew she’d lose their respect if she didn’t hold her ground. She glanced at Doughty, whose poker face told her she was on her own, and then looked the big Greek guerrilla in the eye.

“Pour me a glass, soldier.”

The andartes around the fire produced a shot glass for her, and Stavros poured her some brandy.

“I propose a toast,” announced Stavros. “To our British defenders for sending us so fine a military adviser as Theseus.”

The andartes raised their assorted tin cups, mugs, and bottles in unison and cried, “Kaly eleftheria!”

“Kaly eleftheria,” she replied, and swallowed her shot in one gulp. She knew the words meant good liberation or deliverance. But she didn’t feel liberated and knew that the only way to be delivered from this insufferable situation was to play the game. So she held out her glass to Stavros for more.

I t had taken several shots for Erin to shut up Stavros and prove her mettle. Now the brandy was having its way with her. With Doughty’s help, she had found her kaliva, or shepherd’s hut, then promptly collapsed onto her cot and fell asleep.

She dreamed she was back in the Gestapo cellars in Lyon. Cell number two. She was naked and cold and curled into a ball to keep warm. Her wrists and ankles were raw from the hand and leg chains that had held her for six days. She felt nauseated from the dank, suffocating stench of her own urine.

Looking down at her with his scornful smile was her interrogator, Standartenfuhrer Hoffer. He was a young man, about her age, with a powerful build and an arrogant face. Next to him stood a sergeant holding a camera and flashbulb. They were cataloging her like some specimen for experimentation.

“For the record, please,” Hoffer demanded. “State your name.”

“Joan of Arc.”

“I repeat,” he said sharply, “state your name, age, and rank.”

“Go to hell.”

He struck her across the face, and she could feel the skin beneath her cheekbone split open.

“Let the record state that the subject, age twenty-seven, is a captain in the Strategic Operations Executive, British Secret Intelligence Service. She is known to the French Resistance as Erin. Isn’t that so, Captain?”