I wish Anna Comnena had possessed a single spark of these old men’s spirit. It is from the uncomfortable, the haphazard, the comic, that one learns what things were really like. In Albania, in 1941, I asked an old friend what the retreat in Asia Minor had been like, and without hesitation, he said: ‘Like the retreat of the Grande Armée from Moscow, but with sand instead of snow.’ One catches the atmosphere in a flash. They jumped up and ran away from each other as fast as they could!’ ‘Well,’ he said, taking pity on us at last, ‘they did exactly what you or I would have done. ‘Who? Ah yes, our chap and the Turk … I’m glad you asked …’ There was a long pause. ‘They say the atom bomb – my granddaughter read me all about it, from the Kathimerini – the last atom bomb, I mean, that they exploded at – what’s the place called? Bikini? – in the Pacific Ocean.’ ‘Especially with modern weapons, amán! amán!’ He was gazing into the distance, pensively twisting his white moustache with his forefinger. ‘But what did they do, Uncle Stavro? You are torturing us!’ ‘The whistle of bullets – we still had the old-fashioned single-shot Gra rifles then – orders and counter-orders shouted in both languages … mortars, shells, explosions! Wounded and dying all over the place.’ He clicked his tongue. Barba Stavro’s eyes were twinkling in their lined sockets. ‘Yes, but what did they do?’ The tension was intolerable. Cannons! Horses! Flags! Shouting! Sabres! Bayonets! Bugles!’ ‘Just think! A Romios and a Turk, side by side! And the battle still going on all round them. Suddenly our boy realised that the other was a Turk! Panayia mou! A young infantryman, just like him! And, at the same moment, the other realised he was sitting beside a Greek!’ He paused. When they had drunk their fill they sat up and looked at each other with a sigh of contentment. They made room for each and went on drinking. Then another one arrived and lay down beside him. He ran and flung himself down and started to drink. And thirst, po, po, po! Never ask! One of our boys who had lost touch with his company, suddenly spied a spring up the mountainside. Dead men, dead horses, wounded men, everyone covered with dust caps, helmets, fezes – all lost, everything all over the place and upside down! It was a hot August, just like today. ‘The confusion was terrible! Our chaps here, the Turks there, dust and smoke everywhere. ‘I’ll never forget when we were fighting the Turks on the river Sangarios, the day we captured the mountain of Çatal Dag – you remember, Petro?’ Petro nodded. ‘There’s nothing worse than thirst,’ he said, putting it back. I took a long pull of water from the cool and clammy vessel. The beekeeper took a pitcher of water out of a little cave among the roots and passed it. The Deep Mani! It had never seemed hotter. It was a baking day with long needles of sunlight piercing the brittle shade of the leaves. He lit it with flint and steel and a long yellow wick and I lay back in an aromatic cloud. Try one of ours from Kalamata.’ I took a Karelia from his packet. 1, the mule owner said: ‘Put it back, boy. When I was beside them on the ground and about to light a Papastratos No. Patrick Leigh Fermor in Flomochori on the Mani peninsula in the 1950s.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |