But what pleases me most is that I first wrote it over 40 years ago. Since then it has been re-written, expanded, edited and re-edited, entered for two competitions and finally revised on the feedback from the competition organiser. Just shows what persistence can achieve.
You
Do Not Fight Today
‘And
what about afterwards?’
The Major's question was almost conversational.
‘How
do you mean, sir?' I said.
‘I
mean,’ said the Major, leaning forward, his tone sharper, ‘what
happened after you went wandering off by yourself and finished up at
this cosy little party in a terrorist village?’
I
answered slowly and deliberately, looking at him across the empty
desk.
‘It
was not a party, sir, and I had no reason to think the old man I met
was a terrorist.’
'No
reason, Corporal? Every bloody village in that area is a hotbed of
terrorists. The hills are full of them. There's probably an arms
stash in every village.'
'I
didn't realise that, sir. I file all the reports and none of them
have mentioned arms caches being found in that area.'
‘Don't
be bloody impertinent, Corporal. Stand
up! Stand to attention!’
I
stood up, brought my left boot smartly against my right, heels
together, and stared straight ahead. I knew what was coming – it
was a standard interrogation
technique.
‘Start
again!
Tell
me again, from the beginning.’
For
the second time I told the same story. I said our platoon had decided
on a day out, a beach party in a great little cove we’d seen while
out on patrol. There had been no terrorist activity for months,
regulations were relaxed and we didn’t need to carry weapons.
I
said I’d got bored with snorkelling and drinking and sunbathing so
I decided to go walking in the hills above the coast road. I said I
realized now that it had been unwise, even in the current situation.
I
had no map on this spur-of-the-moment trek and I soon got lost as
even the goat tracks dwindled and disappeared. I was relieved
eventually to come across a small cultivated field. At the far side a
donkey stood motionless among olive trees and an old man sat on a low
stone wall. As I came into the shade he looked up and raised his hand
in greeting. He showed no surprise at my khaki shorts and Army boots.
No sense of hostility or alarm, either.
‘Kalispera,’
I said (‘Good afternoon’). It seemed more appropriate here than
the more familiar ‘Yassou’
we heard in town.
Though
he was smoking a pipe, I thought it polite to offer him a cigarette.
Equally polite, he put aside his pipe and took it. I watched as he
flicked the wheel of an old-fashioned lighter. His hands were brown
and bone-hard as the land they worked, the hands of generations past.
They were like my grandfather’s hands, like my father’s hands,
like mine would have been if I'd stayed on the farm.
He
had no English and I had only a few words of Greek, but we managed to
exchange names and simple pleasantries. He scratched his name on a
stone for me - Petros. I could read most of the Cyrillic alphabet.
Only later did I think it might have been the only word he could
write.
He
was seventy two years old and this was his family field. He had lived
in the nearby village all his life. He had three children and eight
grandchildren. Somehow
I
got him to understand that my family also worked on the land. When I
mimed heat and sweating, he indicated he had finished work for the
day and would take me home and we could have a drink together.
That
was what I told the Major.
The
one street was almost deserted in the early afternoon heat. Two
little boys stood open-mouthed then ran into their house. I followed
Petros out of the bright sunshine and stepped down into the cool
darkness of a doorway – and stopped. I stood absolutely still, my
heart thumping.
It
was that unmistakeable sound, the solid clunk, the big breech-block
of a Sten pulled back ready to fire.
‘Stavro!’
The old man’s voice was like a whiplash.
I
could see the young man now, and the sub machine gun aimed at me.
He
was protesting, shouting, gesturing toward me. The old man stood
firm, spoke quietly. He turned his back on the young man and pulled
out a chair. I sat down. Stavros stood for a full minute, but finally
sat on the chair opposite me. His eyes never left my face; the Sten
gun was still in his hands
Petros
called out and soon an old woman came through from the other room
with a tray of food and coffee. The cups rattled as the tray shook in
her hands. She said nothing.
There
were three cups. Stavros was ready to refuse but a look from the old
man stopped him. He put the gun on the table before he sat down. The
muzzle was pointing at me. The old man leaned across and turned it
towards a blank wall.
We
ate and drank almost in silence. My vocabulary was running out fast.
‘Efharisto’,
I said more than once (‘Thank you’). Then Petros spoke to the
young man who turned to me and spoke in English.
‘You
are my enemy. You are in my country. We want you out, gone, finish.
But my Uncle Petros say I cannot kill you because you are in his
house and we eat and drink together. I say you will bring soldiers
here to find me. He say you will not. What do you say? Will you bring
soldiers here?’
I
turned to the old man and used my last word of Greek – ‘Oxi’
(‘No’)
and on an impulse held out my hand. He grasped it and nodded. It was
enough. We had made a bargain.
Petros
spoke to the young man again and this brought another torrent of
protest. But the old man’s quiet certainty wore him down. At last
he spoke, resigned to the task.
‘My
uncle is tired. He is finish work today. He say I must take you to
the road.’
His
voice was strained. He cleared his throat. For a second I thought he
was going to spit in my face.
‘For
my uncle, I will take you to the road,’ he said, ‘but I see you
again, I kill you!’
That
wasn’t good enough for Uncle Petros. He sensed what was being said.
When Stavros spoke again, he was like a child, having to repeat word
for word what the old man had said.
‘My
uncle say this. You are a young man. Stavros is a young man. I am
old. I am finish with fighting. I say you do not fight today. Another
day, is for God to say.’
Petros
made the sign of the cross and waited till Stavros did the same.
The
old man watched us set off, back towards the field where I first met
him. As soon as we were away from the village, Stavros motioned for
me to walk ahead. He still had the loaded Sten under his arm, his
finger on the trigger guard.
My
senses sharpened the further we went from the village. I trusted
Petros; could I trust this hothead? He was no more than ten yards
behind me. My ears were alive to the sound of his footsteps, and
listening for that chilling metallic clunk I’d heard in the
darkness of his uncle’s house. My eyes ranged ahead, seeking out
every fold in the ground, every boulder, any possible cover. I noted
every stick, every stone, any weapon.
I
missed a step and stumbled. Stavros shouted, 'I watching you. Stay on
this path.'
Sweat
was running down my spine. My shoulders ached with the tension, aware
of a gun was ten yards behind me, ready to pump bullets into my back
Apart
from that one shout, he said nothing.
My
stomach muscles cramped briefly when he finally spoke again.
‘Stop!’
I
stood and waited, looking straight ahead. He
came closer.
He moved sideways off the path, standing where I could see him, about
six feet away. The Sten's muzzle was pointing at my chest.
‘You
take this path, you find Varosha road.’
His
face was blank. I don’t know what I expected to find in his eyes.
We had no point of contact except one – our respect for the old
man.
So
I told the Major, for the third time, about getting lost, about
meeting the old man, going to his house, accepting his hospitality. I
made no mention of Stavros, the gun, the arguments in the house, or
my pact with Petros. I knew it was my duty to report all that, but I
didn’t. I had given my word.
I
was on the brink of promotion to sergeant. Depending on the Major’s
report at the year end, that promotion might have to wait.
If
I identified the village, if I named Stavros, he would be hunted. It
was very unlikely he could be found - so many similar names, so many
bewildering family connections. What was certain was that 72-year-old
Petros, as the only identifiable family member, would be taken in and
questioned. Other members of his family would in turn be found,
questioned, held – for how long? What would it be like for them?
I'd rounded up suspects in the past but never been involved in the
interrogation. You heard
things
sometimes, things done by soldiers who had lost mates, friends who
were like brothers, killed or maimed by roadside bombs or ambushes.
The treatment of suspects was not always strictly by the book.
Our
company surrounded the village two days later. The Major had decided
to carry out a “shut down and search” operation; they were often
done on the flimsiest of evidence or none at all. The young rookies
got the idea they were doing something useful, instead of sitting
around in a dusty camp, polishing their boots. The old sweats knew
it was almost certainly pointless.
It
was like a dozen similar operations. You got whispers, rumours,
possible sightings of wanted men. When you moved in, no one had seen
them, nobody knew them. If they were ever there, they had melted
away. They would have known more tracks out of that village than the
ways we knew to come in.
The
search took an hour. There were not many places to search. Nothing
was found. All
the village males were rounded up and held in the little square by
the church. I saw Petros among them. The Major ordered the older men
separated from the rest.
‘Corporal!
Stand here beside me. Point out the man called Petros.’
'I
don’t think I can, sir. Maybe he’s not here.'
'You
bloody idiot!' He was losing it. 'Are you sure we’re even in the
right place?'
He
didn’t notice my stifled sigh of relief. This was my way out.
All
these villages look pretty much the same, sir. Remember I was totally
lost at the time. I think the church I saw might have been a little
smaller.'
The
Major had one last try. He got the police interpreter to call out
'Petros, step forward!'
Three
old men and four of the younger ones stepped out of their groups,
followed by a little boy, who saluted, left-handed. It wasn’t quite
the “I am Spartacus!” scene, but I caught a sly twitch on the
lips of one or two squaddies.
'Get
those young ones back in line!' shouted the Major. 'Have a good look
at these three, Corporal. Is he here?'
I
moved in closer, then turned to the Major. 'There’s
no one here I can identify, sir.'
'Another
bloody wild goose chase! Sergeant Major, get the men together and
let's get out of here.'
Every
Petros had smiled at me as I walked up to each one in turn. “My”
Petros had a smile no different from the others. Only I could see,
close up, the calm acceptance in his eyes. There was no fear. He
trusted me. I had kept my bargain.
(2,030
words)