One Night In Greece

Written for "PIM" by Lance-Corporal J. D. Wilkinson, of the AIF, formerly of Papua.

ALONG line of lorries waiting in the dark. Drivers talking in quiet tones. An occasional spark of a cigarette .

A fire burning m a village several miles away flares up for a few minutes and lights up strained faces. Talk ceases for a moment and tin hats are adjusted.

Someone gives a nervous laugh.

Rifle-shots splatter for a few seconds about half a mile away on the hill.

From behind the hill comes a flash of light, silhouetting the treeless hilltop for a split moment. Ages later —it seems— comes the boom-oom of the explosion.

An officer stumbling along the convoy, in the dark, says: “That battery of ours is doing good work. It is right on the spot every time.”

From several miles away comes the flash of shell explosion, reflected by the low clouds over the peaks.

Talk begins again, after several sighs of relief have been heard. “Snow”, driv ing a three-tonner which has been knocked about a bit, says, “Thank God, Fritzy does not come over at night.

Waiting here, ahead of the guns, is bad enough for me.” rOM up the line a voice calls out, “Are all vehicles ready?” and cor porals and lance-corporals rush feverishly about, checking up. Everyone envies them, as they have something to do. to occupy their minds.

The answer, in the affirmative, is passed back. A noise of many feet is heard, and batches of weary, loaded men straggle past.

“How much further to our lorry?”

“Why the hell couldn’t the lorries come up another mile and wait there?” “This is the last war I’ll ever go to!” “Where is the Bren?” “Who has the ammo, and spare parts?” “Can’t we go in this lorry?”

“Give me your rifle, and hang on to my arm.” “Is your wound bleeding again?”

One of the drivers hands out a few packets of cigarettes. Another calls out, “There’s some water here, if your bottles are empty.”

The night is full of men. Tired and dirty, cursing—and yet not meaning it.

Two officers come along and give each lorry a number. Orders are to follow the one ahead till further orders. The troops says they are going to Athens.

An officer is detailed to ride with each driver, to see that he keeps awake.

Drivers go to sleep at the wheel often, these days. Men scramble into the back.

The drivers split up, and go to their own lorries.

SUDDENLY, the lorry in front moves.

We are off. After waiting for two hours in the cold mountain pass, in drizzling rain, we are moving at last.

But where? Will we be able to get to cover before the reconnaissance plane comes over in the morning. We know what to expect if we don’t. We’ve had it before.

Culverts, bridges, and shells of houses float oast in the gloom, like phantoms. A ruined village looms up. The driver curses the lack of light, and strains his eyes into the night ahead. The wind screen has gone, long ago, and the cold wind gets colder.

A twist of the wheel misses a tele graph pole, leaning at a crazy angle. A sudden lurch and bump—more bad lan guage from the driver —a surprised, “Christ, look out!” from the officer, and

the lorry stops, inches from a bomb crater.

Blasphemous language from inside the lorry. Someone’s face has been trodden 01 After a walk ahead by the driver the lorry slowly moves on, and the word passes back, “Keep left, and go slow.”

A figure steps into the road and flashes a torch. We stop. The lorry ahead is in trouble. The drivers confer.

The troops get out and help move the tangle of telephone, wires and masonry from the road, and the convoy moves on.

“That must have been a big bomb,” from the officer.

“Bomb be , that was an aerial mine. A hole 15 feet deep and 35 feet across,” from the driver. His nerves are on edge. He is past politeness. Twenty seven men’s lives depend on his skill and alertness to-night, and he is tired.

Lord! How tired he is. When did he sleep last? It seems weeks ago, and then it was only an hour. A hot cup of tea and 12 hours’ sleep is his idea of heaven just now. Who started the bloody war, anyhow? rE convoy stops, and officers ahead hold a conference. The convoy turns to the right, and passes along a narrow, rough road.

The officer wonders aloud whether the convoy is lost or not. He thought it was to go straight to Athens, but this looks queer. The driver just drives. He is past thinking coherently.

A stop at last! Orders—“ Close up.

Troops dismount.” What a scramble.

Men asleep and trodden on. Arms and ammunition dumped in the road.

“Get off my stomach!” “Drop that rifle on your own foot!” “Let me sleep.” All in the dark.

Out of confusion comes order. The lads line up, and a roll is called. A match flares in the back of the lorry, and a voice—querulous, yet clear—says that everything is out now.

The troops march off. The drivers move together.

“Have you got any orders, Bill?”

“No; have you?”

“No. Only half an hour to daylight, too. Where are we?”

“Why didn’t we go straight through to Athens? This looks like another rear guard.”

“It is. The Hun has broken through on the left flank, and this crowd have to

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hang on here for 24 hours for the artil lery to come out.”

“Why the hell can’t we get moving, instead of waiting here for the ‘reco’ plane?” , .

Cigarettes glow like red eyes along the line.

AT last we are off. Each lorry moves up, turns, and races back to an , assembly point. Corporals move along the line, speaking to each driver.

We are to move up to a dispersal area.

The convoy moves.

Daylight comes. The road is packed with vehicles of all descriptions. They move—they stop—a lorry ahead some where has broken down. A major runs past, swearing. He has a position to take up with his men, and time is pre cious.

A gang runs to the lorry, and tips it off the road, and the vehicles move on.

The sun comes up. At any time now we can expect a horde of bombing and machine-gunning planes to come over us. Twenty lorries move off into a vacant piece of land to disperse. We still go on. More lorries disperse.

At last our turn comes. We disperse about 200 yards apart, and each driver takes a blanket, some food and water, and looks for a hole to sleep in.

Someone calls out, “There is enough room for two more over here.” A culvert, muddy and slimy, and distasteful at any ordinary time, is welcomed now. It is about four feet high, and four feet wide, and offers good protection.

Further over, three men lie in a small gutter in the shade of an olive tree.

Everyone is in some sort of cover for the day ahead.

A DRONING is heard, and we care fully look up. “Oh, hell, look at this!”

Twenty bombers, and another forty behind them. Fighters thrown around them as a screen.

A cry comes from further up, and we duck as machine-gun bullets whistle about us from a fast travelling, hedge hopping Messerschmitt. The whistle of bombs keeps us down until after the explosions, but we look anxiously then.

All the lorries seem O.K. No one hit!

The boom of hundreds of bombs comes from some miles down the road. Traffic on the road is at a standstill. Small parties of Greeks walking back are the only moving objects.

Another yell, and we duck again.

Seven bombers this time. Bombs whistle and crash—it seems for hours.

Near the road a lorry is on fire. A man—probably the driver—runs towards it. Comes the scream of a diving plane, the rattle of machine-guns, and spurts of dust dance about the runner’s falling figure. Later, his mates go out and carry what is left back to a hole, and bury it.

Explosive bullets make a mess of any thing they hit.

We try to sleep. Several Greek pea sants come down, looking for food.

Another attack. Some bully beef, and

a mouthful of water stave off hunger.

Planes drone continuously over us Bombs crash all the time, for miles along the road. Our lorries get it hourly Sleep is impossible, but we rest, cigar ettes are going continuously. A big plane drones its way over the hills, the sun flashing its last rays on the spin ning “props”.

Suddenly, a white object drops out from beneath the plane, and slowly and mysteriously breaks up into a number of smaller objects, which finally disappear altogether.

We look at each other and wonder.

It couldn’t be parachute troops!

We open some more “bully” and bis cuits, and munch away. Spirits rise night is coming and we soon shall be safe for a few hours from the planes.

Suddenly, a yellow pamphlet comes fluttering down. Then more. At last we have it. A leaflet, but it is printed in Greek. That plane was dropping leaf lets. We tuck some away for future reference, and wonder what they say.

WE also wonder what the latest news is. Some one remembers that to day is race-day in Brisbane and Sydney. An argument crops up as to just what day it is. All days are alike now.

When we get the Hun on the run it will be God help him! We are getting hell now, but we have no idea of giving in. All we want is an air force.

We wonder how the infantry are far ing, and has the Hun broken through.

This waiting time is the worst.

The day drags slowly to an end—too slowly for us. Weary, dirty, unshaven, red-eyed men come out of their holes in the ground, and trudge wearily to their lorries. A quick check, and then back for orders.

One lorry burned. Two riddled with machine-gun bullets, but only one out of commission. Another one a twisted mass of wreckage, the result of a direct hit from a bomb.

Two familiar faces are missing. Objects are passed from hand to hand, and mur murs arise. “Why can’t we hit back at these planes? If ever we get a chance to hit we will hit hard to make up for all this.”

Orders! “Proceed to point where troops were debussed, and stand by to evacuate troops. Vehicles will move at a speed of 15 miles in the hour, at intervals of 100 yards. As visibility gets less, close up until the vehicle in front is in sight. No lights will be used at any time or on any account. Vehicles to be filled with petrol, oil and water, and be ready to move off at 2030 hours. Reserve supplies will be picked up on the way out. Drivers —break off.”

Another day of the retreat in Greece has passed. We move back to pick up troops. Tales of planes, parachutists, and narrow escapes help cigarettes to pass the waiting time. Comes the noise of marching feet.

The AASC did its share in Greece, if never before. Ask the infantry. They will tell you.

Mr. G. M. Rio proceeded to Sydney, for medical attention, in January: but, after two months, he departed, with empha sis, for North Queensland —he does not like cities. “Daintree is not the Islands, by a long chalk; but it has cows, so I can get here the accursed milk diet ordered by the doctor, and it is the nearest place to New Guinea,” he writes. “Rain, snow or Japs, it is my intention to go back to Papua as soon as I can get the doctor’s 0.K,”