moved toward sundown Mike knew the Stukas would leave the area. He looked over the vast expanse of water and on the horizon saw the first of many little black dots.
Ships were moving into the Bay of Messína!
The soldiers clambered from their foxholes and stared. This time there was no singing or cheering—only prayer.
Their prayers went unanswered as a frantic message bolted up the hill from mouth to mouth.
“German paratroops have landed on the outskirts of Kalámai!”
The NCO’s and the officers were up and shouting.
“Everyone with a rifle, up to the front! The rest of the troops get down on the beach!”
“Come on, lads, everyone with arms! Move up!”
“Let’s give the bloody Hun a show!”
The hills were angry!
First, in twos and threes, then in dozens and hundreds they poured toward Kalámai with murder in their hearts. Maddened, infuriated men held their rifles at fixed bayonets. Pistols, Bren guns—some with clubs
Under a bitter, unyielding offensive the Germans were driven from Kalámai.
The enemy regrouped and drove back the outnumbered British and Anzac rear guard with overwhelming force. The rear guard fell back into the town slowly, bleeding the Germans for every inch of ground. Darkness fell on the raging battle.
Destroyers and transports steamed into the Gulf of Messína and stood by, waiting to snatch their soldiers from the enemy.
Mike Morrison ran down the hillside, desperately determined to get aboard a ship and get out of Greece. When he reached the beach all semblance of discipline had broken. The unarmed men were in a frenzy to escape. Mike stood on the fringe of a howling mob two hundred yards deep and every man had but one thought.
Mike had to reach the water. He had to be there when the boats came. Behind him he could hear the sounds of battle coming closer and closer....
He hunched his shoulders and rammed into the mass of hysterical humanity. He plunged deeper and deeper into the chaos, calling on every ounce of strength he had. Flailing arms—pushing—shoving—howling men... He flung men to the right and to the left of him. A surge of pushing men forced him to his knees. He struggled to his feet and stepped over bodies being half-trampled to death. Mike began punching and kicking—fists—feet—elbows... Another tangle of arms and legs brought him crashing into the sand with the weight of twenty men atop him. He bit and clawed his way free and burst through the last yards, plunging into the water.... He arose, knee-deep in water, gasping for air. His uniform was in shreds. His face was bleeding and his hands were swelling.
Suddenly it became very still.
A British colonel stepped out into the water in front of the men. His bearing was regal, but he could not hold back the tremor in his voice. “We are prisoners of war,” he said softly.
The thread of hope had snapped!
“Keep the home fires burning,
Though our hearts are yearning,
Though the boys are far away,
They dream of home...”
Half in shock, half to bolster their spirits, the men set up a dirge-like harmony which drifted up and down the beach.
Three words drummed over and over in the minds of thousands of stunned soldiers on the outskirts of Kalámai—prisoner of war—prisoner of war—prisoner of war...
“There’s a silver lining,
Through the dark clouds shining ... ”
The glow of campfires studded the beach. Michael Morrison trembled as he sat by a campfire. He was frightened beyond any fear he had ever known. He visualized a black club smashing down on his head and men kicking at his ribs and throwing water on his unconscious body to revive him for further torture. He wanted to believe he had courage—but he was afraid.
He toyed with the idea of trying to bargain for his life in exchange for the names on the mysterious list. He tried to justify it in his mind, but he couldn’t. He knew he would never know a minute’s peace of mind for the rest of his life if he broke in cowardice before
Ships were moving into the Bay of Messína!
The soldiers clambered from their foxholes and stared. This time there was no singing or cheering—only prayer.
Their prayers went unanswered as a frantic message bolted up the hill from mouth to mouth.
“German paratroops have landed on the outskirts of Kalámai!”
The NCO’s and the officers were up and shouting.
“Everyone with a rifle, up to the front! The rest of the troops get down on the beach!”
“Come on, lads, everyone with arms! Move up!”
“Let’s give the bloody Hun a show!”
The hills were angry!
First, in twos and threes, then in dozens and hundreds they poured toward Kalámai with murder in their hearts. Maddened, infuriated men held their rifles at fixed bayonets. Pistols, Bren guns—some with clubs
Under a bitter, unyielding offensive the Germans were driven from Kalámai.
The enemy regrouped and drove back the outnumbered British and Anzac rear guard with overwhelming force. The rear guard fell back into the town slowly, bleeding the Germans for every inch of ground. Darkness fell on the raging battle.
Destroyers and transports steamed into the Gulf of Messína and stood by, waiting to snatch their soldiers from the enemy.
Mike Morrison ran down the hillside, desperately determined to get aboard a ship and get out of Greece. When he reached the beach all semblance of discipline had broken. The unarmed men were in a frenzy to escape. Mike stood on the fringe of a howling mob two hundred yards deep and every man had but one thought.
Mike had to reach the water. He had to be there when the boats came. Behind him he could hear the sounds of battle coming closer and closer....
He hunched his shoulders and rammed into the mass of hysterical humanity. He plunged deeper and deeper into the chaos, calling on every ounce of strength he had. Flailing arms—pushing—shoving—howling men... He flung men to the right and to the left of him. A surge of pushing men forced him to his knees. He struggled to his feet and stepped over bodies being half-trampled to death. Mike began punching and kicking—fists—feet—elbows... Another tangle of arms and legs brought him crashing into the sand with the weight of twenty men atop him. He bit and clawed his way free and burst through the last yards, plunging into the water.... He arose, knee-deep in water, gasping for air. His uniform was in shreds. His face was bleeding and his hands were swelling.
Suddenly it became very still.
A British colonel stepped out into the water in front of the men. His bearing was regal, but he could not hold back the tremor in his voice. “We are prisoners of war,” he said softly.
The thread of hope had snapped!
“Keep the home fires burning,
Though our hearts are yearning,
Though the boys are far away,
They dream of home...”
Half in shock, half to bolster their spirits, the men set up a dirge-like harmony which drifted up and down the beach.
Three words drummed over and over in the minds of thousands of stunned soldiers on the outskirts of Kalámai—prisoner of war—prisoner of war—prisoner of war...
“There’s a silver lining,
Through the dark clouds shining ... ”
The glow of campfires studded the beach. Michael Morrison trembled as he sat by a campfire. He was frightened beyond any fear he had ever known. He visualized a black club smashing down on his head and men kicking at his ribs and throwing water on his unconscious body to revive him for further torture. He wanted to believe he had courage—but he was afraid.
He toyed with the idea of trying to bargain for his life in exchange for the names on the mysterious list. He tried to justify it in his mind, but he couldn’t. He knew he would never know a minute’s peace of mind for the rest of his life if he broke in cowardice before
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