Mussolini had bullied his way to the Greek frontier through Albania. The Greek Army was holding the invaders along the border. The R.A.F. bomber squadrons were operating in support of these ground troops. For ease of supply, the new arrivals were based at an airfield on the outskirts of Athens. From there the Albanian frontier was less than 200 miles away.
When the squadron left the desert they had not realised how weary they were. Months on a diet consisting mainly of bully beef had reduced their resistance to the strain of long hours of flying, constantly alert for fighters and taking evasive action through flak. Two weeks in the Delta had refreshed them. They landed at Elefsis well fed and eager to get on with the fighting. Their first sight of the place as they orbited before touch-down was disarming. Denton felt like a tourist, with the Parthenon shining white on the Acropolis, the cobalt sea lapping the fabled shores, the craft in Piraeus harbour looking peaceful and picturesque.
They had taken off at first light and it was now mid-morning. The ground crews and the Intelligence and technical officers had preceded them in Bombays, which served as troop-carriers as well as night bombers. While their aircraft were being serviced they had time to question the Gladiator and Hurricane pilots and the Blenheim crews of other squadrons about operating on this front.
Nobody mentioned losses but the stories of damage inflicted on the enemy were encouraging.
“The Italians fly big formations,” one fighter pilot told them. “Fourteen of us were on patrol in Gladiators two or three weeks ago and we ran into forty G. Fifties. We got four of them without a scratch to ourselves. As a matter of fact from the time the squadron arrived here in November until the end of December, we bagged forty: mostly C.R. Forty-twos and Ghiblis.”
One of the Blenheim captains enlightened them about their own function. “All our ops are along the Albanian frontier, in support of the Greek Army. The Italians operate from bases on the heel of Italy and their bombers are always escorted. We don’t get any escort, but the fighter boys are usually on patrol somewhere handy.”
Critchley listened to all this professional gossip with impatience. At the earliest opportunity he put a question on the subject which interested him most. “What’s the woman situation?”
The answers he was given were ironical and non-committal.
In the early afternoon the new arrivals were ordered off on their first look at the battle front. It was pleasant to fly over hills, valleys and rivers, farms, forests, towns and villages after the desert. Their target was a small port a few miles from the frontier, where enemy reinforcements had been landed during the night. Guns, vehicles, ammunition and other stores had been unloaded. Troops had come ashore. There were Italian naval vessels in the harbour.
They were within 15 minutes of the frontier when they saw a cluster of small shapes in the distance, travelling south. They had never seen so big an enemy formation in North Africa and at that distance it was impossible to identify the type of aircraft. Presently it became apparent that they were not all of the same size: so at least they were not all fighters.
Flight Sergeant Butler reported that there were friends at hand. “Twelve Gladiators overtaking on our port, Skipper. Sixteen Hurricanes coming up to starboard. Both lots about four thousand above.”
Denton leaned forward and turned his head to look up and astern from his port window while Critchley did the same on the other side.
There was more to see. High above the enemy mass another clutch of aircraft cruised towards them.
“Looks like more fighters at about eighteen or twenty thousand, one’clock. Keep an eye on them, Happy.”
“I see them, Skipper.”
“I make it about fifty hostiles in the main formation,” Critchley said.
Denton wished the Blenheims’ radios were on the same frequency as the fighters’. This was a fascinating aerial set piece and he wondered what the Gladiators’ and Hurricanes’ tactics would be. They were almost within shooting range of the enemy by now. Some of the Italian fighters had turned towards them. The Gladiators changed formation and began to circle the enemy. Denton’s crew could see spurts of tracer fire driving the enemy back. The Hurricanes had also changed from Vs to echelons and were diving into the midst of the C.R. 42s, G. 50s and Ghiblis. The Gladiators tore round the stack of enemy aircraft like dogs herding sheep, while the Hurricanes dived, fired, broke and came in again.
Even Happy Butler sounded first awed, then fervent and finally as pleased as the others had ever heard him, as he made brief comments on the battle.
An enemy fighter began to spin, with smoke coming from it. A moment later two more were going down, one smothered in flames. Then a bomber caught fire ... and two more. Another exploded and the shock wave from its detonating bombs rocked and scattered the other aeroplanes closest around it.
Denton, Critchley and Butler chanted the score as they tried to keep up with events. “Three ... five ... six ...” They were soon up to ten and still the Gladiators and Hurricanes were shooting them down.
The higher formation they had spotted flew over the fight and dived at the Blenheims. There were 12 of them, all C.R. 42s. Four of the Gladiators banked and turned to cut them off. Two Italians went down in the first few seconds. There were 12 Blenheims and all of them opened fire on the remainder. Two more Gladiators charged into the fray. The Blenheims held their fire. More smoking or flaming Italian aeroplanes were falling from the sky. Parachutes floated wherever one looked. The surviving C.R. 42s which had made for the Blenheims now turned away and hurled themselves into the main battle. The Gladiators and Hurricanes which had come to the bombers’ aid hurtled after them. The bombers continued to their target.
Over the harbour town the air was already pocked with bursting anti-aircraft shells and they flew into the barrage in loose formation to allow them enough room to weave and change height.
By the time the Hurricanes and Gladiators had finished the battle the Blenheims had just left, they would have no ammunition.
“Finger out for more enemy fighters, Happy.”
“You bet, Skip.”
If the Blenheims were set upon they would have to rely entirely on their own guns.
Denton made corkscrew turns to left and right as they entered the area where the flak was thickest. He would have to fly straight and level on his run-up to a target. Bombs were bursting on the docks and among neighbouring warehouses. At one end of the docks Denton saw six torpedo boats moored stern-on to the quay. They would do. He dearly wanted to dive-bomb them. The squadron had practised this technique assiduously but he had never had the chance to make a steep diving attack.
Today was one of the many occasions when he must not dive. The captains had been briefed to hold formation for mutual fire cover. His eyes were on the line of small, vicious looking craft. A jolt on his starboard side distracted him. A chunk of wingtip was missing. He returned his attention to the task. A judder ran through the aircraft and the tail swished from side to side. The Blenheim answered sluggishly to his correction. Nobody said anything. He flew on, unaware that he was holding his breath. The torpedo boats slid slowly into the right place in his line of sight. Bombs gone! He turned into a sharp bank to see where the bombs had fallen. Four successive bursts flashed along the dockside and a huge flame darted up from the midst of a boiling patch of smoke. He had hit at least one of the boats and all the bombs had burst along the edge of the quay.
“Everything all right, Gunner?”
“Chunk knocked off the fin and starboard tailplane, Skip. And it’s a bit draughty back here.” Before Denton could say anything his cheerful air gunner had added: “If that’s the worst thing that happens before we see Elefsis again, I suppose we can count ourselves lucky.” He sounded as though he doubted that such good luck would attend them.
When they landed they found the fighter pilots in a group, weaving their hands in demonstration of their combats. They reckoned to have shot down about 30 enemy aircraft and confirmatory reports from grou
nd observers and of the finding of wreckage were already coming in. By the time the squadrons stood down that evening the fighters had been credited with 27 kills and 11 probables.
It looked as though the Italians were no more formidable here than in North Africa.
*
They were all impatient to have a look at Athens. Wing Commander Nash, his Arab affectations abandoned, emanated goodwill and elation at the success of the squadron’s first operation and the fighters’ slaughter.
“There are times when he seems almost normal,” Denton said to Ivens.
“He’ll never be that. But he does appear a trifle less mad without his fancy dress.”
Nash called across the crowded mess bar. “Now’s the chance to make use of your Greek, Geoffrey. Find us a good place to eat in town and somewhere to go afterwards.”
Creon Lefkaris and others had plied Denton with information about Athens. He took charge of the party with confidence and led them to a taverna in Plaka. They were a large crowd when they filed into the restaurant and the proprietor looked alarmed for a moment. There was nobody else there in uniform, not even a Greek one and the place was half-full already. Everybody stopped eating or talking to look at them. Suddenly a buzz of comment broke out, all the faces turned towards the newcomers began to smile. There was a ripple of hand-clapping.
The proprietor came smiling to greet them. In stumbling English he tried to explain that it would take a couple of minutes to arrange several tables together to accommodate them.
Denton spoke to him in Greek. “That’s all right. We’re not in a hurry. My friend Creon Lefkaris in Cairo sends you his greetings.”
“Kirios Lefkaris! You are a friend of his? How is he? I am happy to welcome you gentlemen here.”
“He is very well.”
“And his wife?”
“Very well also, and sends you her greetings.” Denton was aware that silence had fallen and the other diners were listening to his conversation.
The beaming proprietor asked “And did Mr. and Mrs. Lefkaris teach you your excellent Greek?”
“They taught me what little I know.”
“You speak very well.”
Several of the patrons were laughing and nodding. At a table near where Denton and his friends were standing sat a party of six who had caught his eye immediately on entering. Five of them held no interest for him. The sixth held all his attention now. If he had ever seen a more beautiful girl, he could not remember when or where. She had perfect classical features with huge, dark eyes and glossy hair, rich lips and a neatly shaped head. Her neck was graceful and so were the slender hands, fingers interlaced, on which she rested her chin, elbows on the table, while she looked at Denton with apparent amusement as well as interest.
He gave her a smile and a small bow. A quick flush came to her cheeks, she dropped her eyes, turned away and said something to the man on her left. He looked to be in his thirties, a burly, sullen-faced fellow with too much padding in the shoulders of his jacket and a manifest conceit. He had a prominent jaw and Denton had the urge to land a punch on it. The other members of the party were two middle-aged or elderly couples, both with an air of distinction and money. The young man fixed his eyes on Denton with an expression of mixed insolence and irritation. Denton’s desire to hit him increased. The girl smiled at Denton again and his aggression melted.
Nash settled his officers around a long table. Critchley leaned over to Denton. “Find out who that gorgeous bint is, Geoffrey.”
An irrational resentment made Denton’s reply curt. “The word is ‘koritsi’: but ‘girl’ will do.”
Critchley looked startled. “Don’t get shirty.”
Denton ignored him. He spoke to Nash. “The form is to choose what you want, in the kitchen, sir.”
“That’s not my idea of service. You’re the gourmet, Victor. Go along with Geoffrey and order for us all.”
Following Fry across the room, Denton looked round. He found the pretty girl looking at them. She caught his eye, smiled and shifted her glance.
When they returned to the table after ordering the meal, the older man sitting beside the girl was standing with Nash, in conversation. He shook hands with them and introduced himself.
“My name is Dameon Pefkos. I was just telling the Wing Commander what a pleasure it is to see more British uniforms in our country. I was at our London embassy for four years and my family and I have very happy memories of England. And you, my dear Flying Officer Denton, you surprised and delighted us all by your command of our language. I congratulate you.”
Victor Fry drawled “G-Geoffrey can always g-get a job as a hotel concierge or a Cook’s g-guide, or a wagon lit attendant, if all else f-fails. He’s got French, German, Italian, Spanish and Arabic as w-well.”
Pefkos gave him a cold look and then addressed Denton again. “In that case, you are wasted outside the D-Diplomatic S-Service.” The deliberate stammer was a rebuke and an insult that made Fry turn red.
Nash quickly said “Mr. Pefkos has kindly ordered wine for us.”
Pefkos made a deprecating gesture. “Just my small tribute to the magnificent achievements of the R.A.F. for which we Greeks are grateful. I would not like, either, for you to be disappointed with your first taste of retsina. It is important to know what one is drinking.”
The Pefkos party was still there when, hurrying over their food from Anglo-Saxon habit, the R.A.F. party left. Teddie Nash, Victor Fry and Denton went to thank Pefkos for the wine. “My wife ... my daughter Kathia. I’m afraid our guests don’t speak English.” He introduced Denton to them in Greek: Mrs. Pefkos’s sister, brother-in-law and nephew. Kathia broke off her conversation with Nash and Fry to join in Denton’s.
“We must see you again,” Pefkos said as they were leaving. “I hope you can find time to visit us at home. Perhaps I may get in touch with you at Elefsis?”
They went out to explore the Plaka night spots and whether it was the ouzo, the retsina and the brandy that made Denton feel more pleased with life than he had since Jean MacGregor had snubbed him, or whether Kathia was alone responsible, he did not try to decide. But when Critchley gave him a disgruntled look and muttered something about the lingo giving him an unfair advantage, he burst out laughing and repeated back to Critchley one of his favourite expressions. It brought a wry grin to Critchley’s face but did not seem to console him for losing out for once.
“Mine’s all right, Ian. I hope you can find someone.”
Seven
The Greek Army was holding the Italians along the frontiers with ease. The Greeks had no plans for advancing into Albania, Bulgaria or Jugoslavia. They did not want to enter or possess anyone else’s territory: all they wanted was to keep invaders out of theirs.
The squadron flew on alternate days, serviced their aircraft and waited for the Germans to come. It was obvious that the Italians would never conquer Greece or even penetrate far into it. German intervention was inevitable.
On their third morning at Elefsis Nash sent for Denton.
“I’ve just had a call from Pefkos, the chap we met the other night. He’s apparently in the equivalent to our Foreign Office. He’s asked four of us to dinner tomorrow. I thought I’d take along Squadron Leader Fry and Hugh Ivens. Pefkos particularly invited you.” Nash’s eyes protruded a trifle further with amusement. “At his beautiful daughter’s suggestion, no doubt.”
Kathia had been much in Denton’s thought. He was reluctant to succumb again to the obvious attraction of a pretty girl, but this time, he told himself, he would not fall in love. It had been in his mind to invite her out, but he was not sure what the conventions of Greek society demanded. Seeing her tomorrow would give him the chance to ask her.
Ian Critchley would be disappointed, and perhaps hurt, at being left out. The C.O. did not entirely approve of him, Denton knew. Teddie Nash had once confided to Fry, in Denton’s hearing, that Critchley was “n.q.t.d.” Not Quite Top Drawer. Hugh Ivens, on the other hand, manifestly was.
He was also a particular crony of Denton’s.
The Pefkoses lived in fashionable Kolonaki, at the foot of Mount Lycabettus. Their house was surrounded by a high wall and there was a gatekeeper’s lodge at the entrance. Three cars stood at the portico when the R.A.F. guests arrived. One of these was a military one and its driver saluted them. A manservant met them at the door.
There were several people in the drawing-room. Kathia, seen for the first time standing, was more beautiful than Denton had remembered. Her figure was slender and tall, perfectly proportioned. Her yellow dress complemented her ivory-olive skin and black hair, her very dark brown eyes.
They were introduced to a major general, his wife and two daughters; a cabinet minister and his wife and their son and daughter; a professor and his wife and daughter. All the older people spoke English well, the younger ones not badly, and what they lacked they made up in French. A butler and maid served champagne.
Victor Fry, after his first sip, murmured “My God! Monkey piss. I suppose he gets it cheaply through diplomatic channels; and no wonder.”
Denton was neither insecure nor blasé enough to agree. The stuff tasted all right to him. Ivens, whose boyish face gave him a permanent look of innocence, cast him an amused look and then turned his innocuous stare on Fry.
“What type of monkey would you say, sir?” He took a judicious sip. “And the year? I’m afraid I’ve never drunk piss myself; of any kind.” He sipped again. “Gibraltar rock ape, perhaps? Vintage of ’thirty-one?”
Fry glowered and moved away to exercise his wit and charm on the major general’s wife. Nash was talking to their hostess. Pefkos and Kathia came to talk to the two young officers, bringing two of the other girls with them.
Denton smiled at Kathia. “Your father tells me you spent four years in England?”
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