Exorcism pt. III

Continued from Part II

The brigadier was going from bad to worse, as he hadn’t had a whole-night’s sleep in weeks. He started to forget things, turned up to work in a dirty uniform, unshaven and deranged. He forgot his tendency to bully the major and his other subordinates, and was especially absent-minded to the point where he started leaving classified documents and important keys all over the camp. Despite his macho façade and his pretences of warrior status, he was a man constantly fighting to maintain control over everything and everyone in his life. He kept everyone at arm’s length, lest they saw through him and lost their fear and respect for him. He claimed to like guns and shooting and all things army, but at heart he detested it all. Weapons made his hands greasy and he hated the loud mayhem of practice shooting. He occasionally had to put on a show for the sake of hierarchy, but he loathed it all. His weapon of choice was one of his expensive pens tucked into his breast pocket, and his usual target was the daily crossword. He just felt that things worked out better when people feared him and did as he said-so he left no space for contradictions and arguments in any aspect of his life.

One afternoon he fell asleep in the office, only to wake up late at night when everyone was gone. As his driver had taken his leave, he decided to walk home. Passing through the sleepy village’s narrow streets, mud brick houses and dark arches, he felt that someone or something was following him, as if the dark itself was conspiring against him. He started walking faster, his legs making a vain attempt to run but failing to shift his heavy frame. When he finally got home he had the look of a mad man. His wife tried to calm him down, bathed him and put him to bed as if he was a baby. Then she picked up the phone. “Good evening Yiannís. We need to talk. Yes, tomorrow morning, I’ll come to the church. Thank you, goodnight.”

The brigadier was surprised to see his brother-in-law in his office. He couldn’t remember arranging a ceremony for the troops and it was definitely not a national holiday. Papa Yiannís had arrived informed and trod around the topic very carefully to avoid exposing the poor woman’s intervention. “You look tired Sofokli if you don’t mind me saying so. Have you been busy at work or partying hard?” he joked. When the brigadier tried to dismiss the priest’s concern, the priest insisted. “Seriously Sofokli, I’m worried about you as a friend and relative, and the man responsible for your soul. Is there something you want to tell me?” When the brigadier dismissed his concerns once again, the priest erupted in rage. He charged at him, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently. “For fuck’s sake man! Look at you! You look like you’ve just crawled out of the sewer and you’re crazier than Pello-Kokos. I’ve seen men end up in the asylum for less! Tell me what’s going on before I kick your head in!” 


The brigadier had never heard the priest swear, or threaten with violence, and was shocked at his directness but also at his strength. The priest was a young man and was far from being typical. He was rather pragmatic and sceptical about any kind of claims to the supernatural, but also understood its great value to the Church’s cause. He was a rather secular priest, playing guitar in a local rock band and occasionally playing football for the village team. He was in fact quite a good player, with a tendency to get stuck in and even have the odd fight. In the evenings he turned up at the coffee house, played pool and darts and smoked endlessly. The only thing that made him a priest were his beard and cassock. But the brigadier was shocked none the less and immediately explained to him what he had experienced in the past few weeks.

Papa Yiannís listened with caution. When the brigadier finished, he sighed in desperation. He’d been hearing these stories for a while but was utterly dismissive. “Sofokli, there are no ghosts, this is nonsense.” Papa Yiannís went on to explain to the brigadier the local legend of a young girl who was murdered around the chapel of St George by a villain and whose spirit is said to roam the area around the anniversary of her death every August. The priest had a cynical take on the tale and treated it as damaging superstition. “You know the tale of Pafitis, don’t you Sofoklis? Old man Pafitis rode to the cemetery on his donkey one evening to light a candle by his late wife’s grave. He dismounted and drove a spike into the earth onto which he tied the donkey. He turned and got up to go to the grave, when he felt something holding his vraka* back. He thought the dead had reached out from their graves and were holding him back and he died from fear. In fact he’d pinned down his own vraka when he was tying the donkey. They found him dead in the morning, his vraka pinned to the ground and full of shit.” The brigadier stared at him with blank eyes. “What I’m trying to say is that this ghost story is as ridiculous and silly as the story of old man Pafitis. We have to get over it now. For the sake of your sanity, your wife and your soldiers.”

“Please Yianní, can’t you do something? I am really tormented”, insisted the brigadier, his spherical body sunken in his chair. “You are tormented because you have fear in you, and you believe in this crap.” “Can’t you do something, a blessing, an exorcism, something? The soldiers have been seeing things too, something is not right, for sure.” “Listen, you are an intelligent man. If it makes you feel better, we can have a ceremony and consecrate the grounds again, with the soldiers present. Hopefully this will make everyone calm down so we can get on with our lives. I want a favour in return though.” “Anything, as long as we can put this matter to bed once and for all.”

On the following day a sombre procession began from the outpost. The troops, some of which were carrying crosses and the banner of the Virgin which Papa Yannís provided, Captain Kitsis, Major Troullos, the brigadier, Mastre Hambís and Linda the dog were all walking slowly behind the priest’s determined and fearless figure. He was chanting and burning incense all the way to the end of the trench where the bones were found. When they got there, the group still cowering with fear but also hopeful, the priest recited prayers to banish the evil spirits. He went on to sprinkle holy water with a bunch of basil and the cross held in his right hand, making the sign of the cross. It all had a strange resonance in the peaceful countryside. The wind was lightly shaking the cypress trees and there was not even a cloud to blemish the blue sky. When it was all over they all looked relieved and happy. The priest turned around to address them. “My children, now all this is over and laid to rest. I urge you to go back to your daily routine without fear. The Lord will protect you and shelter you from all evil.”

For the next few weeks the soldiers whitewashed the chapel, repaired the door, rebuilt the perimeter wall which was crumbling away and fixed the gate. They pulled the weeds and cleaned up, just as Papa Yannís had ordered. They had a renewed air of youthful cheer and arrogance, their playfulness had returned, as if Papa Yannís’ prayers had disintegrated their worries and cleansed their minds from all doubts and fears. They started teasing each other, splashing Sotirakis’ boots with whitewash and pretending they were ghosts howling and laughing. It was all back to normal it seemed, they were eighteen again.

Papa Yannís came with the brigadier on the last day and together they complimented the soldiers for their work. “Perhaps this ghost should come more often”, Papa Yannís joked. The brigadier looked back at his best, ubiquitous and loud as usual, but also happy it was all over. The soldiers gathered their tools, spades, rakes, brushes and buckets and started walking back towards the outpost. Mastre Hambís would be coming by later with some kléftiko and beers.

Nobody noticed the black-clad figure peering at them from inside the chapel.


_____________________________________________________________
Vraka=traditional trousers/shalvar worn in Cyprus and Crete


Part of the Army Tales

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Exorcism pt. II

Continued from Part I


To make things worse, the squad’s bookworm, Sotirakis, had been reading Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft recently, and his wild imagination conjured images of masked aggressors, outlandish beasts with claws and fangs. He’d sit with the rest at night and always start with something like “what if..”, weaving an improbable probability of monsters, ghosts and ghouls prowling the night after the men’s souls. They often tried to shut him up. Antonís threatened to break his legs if he didn’t stop. Unfortunately, Sotirakis had frequent nightmares as a result, crucially waking up screaming as the oneiric beast was about to catch up with him on his patrol and rip his lungs out. He’d occasionally wake everyone else with his screams, and as they were already scared, Sotirakis’ screams froze their blood, until they realised what happened and started cursing him. He then started reading Huckelberry Finn again just for a change.

Patrols passing near the chapel of St George thought they saw a figure in the cypress trees, lurking in the dark, although it may well have been the branches swaying in the night breeze. One night, as they were playing cards and singing, trying to beat the boredom, they heard scratching on the roof. They all fell silent and froze, listening what sounded like a huge pair of claws scraping the roof. In the end Kostís went out and saw that one of the branches of the eucalyptus tree was so low it started to scrape the roof. They cut it down the following morning.

They easy excuse for most things was the enemy. The Turks were probably teasing them, crossing the ceasefire line at night and throwing stones at them or crying out to frighten them. They kept telling themselves that, but didn’t really believe it. They kept their weapons loaded and bayonets fixed just in case.

Things went from bad to worse, when they stopped going on patrols and manning the detached outpost altogether. The threat of punishment was somehow preferable to the threat of the unknown. They’d take a scolding from the brigadier or the captain any time to facing the long walk in the dark to relieve the guard. Sometimes they agreed to keep guard in pairs, doing effectively double shifts. That was the only way they’d brave the dark. The patrols kept moving, as opposed to finding a sheltered spot for a nap as they used to. They stopped by the guard posts for longer periods, sitting all together, smoking and pretending things were all right.

Eventually Captain Kitsis found out about all this and turned up at the outpost to calm things down.  He thought that a considerate approach might work better than punishments flying. He tried to entertain their fears, claiming that they were just seeing things, but to no avail. They agreed in principle to go back to normal, but things just became worse after Kostís swore he saw some shadows follow him on his way to the outpost. They went back to spending their nights indoors and going everywhere in groups. Eventually, the regimental snitch grassed them up to the brigadier. They knew they were in for some trouble when they saw his car come up the drive unexpectedly, late one morning. The gate guard trying in vain to hold him up in order to give the rest some time to scrub up. He’d brought Major Troullos with him, as if to tell everyone off together. This caused Troullos great embarrassment as he knew nothing about what was going on.

“So what’s this I hear?” he addressed the assembled conscripts. “Apparently you lot have been seeing ghosts and what have you.” Nobody responded. “Can someone explain to me what’s going on?” he insisted. “Sergeant?” “Well, sir, it’s just that the men have been seeing and hearing strange things since we dug up that trench by the chapel.” “What about it?” demanded the brigadier, his face already beginning to feel the heat, droplets of sweat breaking on his forehead. “Well, there were some bones there, and we think we’ve disturbed the dead.” 

“Nonsense! Are you saying there are ghosts? Don’t answer that. There are no such things as ghosts, lads”, changing to a friendlier tune. “I can imagine how here in the wilderness you can imagine things, but I assure you there’s nothing to be afraid of. Generations of soldiers have passed from here and we never heard anything like that” he reasoned, conveniently neglecting the events of 1982. “Now listen, let’s all take a walk together to the chapel and see, except for the guard of course”, he chuckled.

They walked down the trenches, approaching the place the bones were found. When Kostís pointed out the place, the brigadier kicked it lightly with his boot, laughing. “What, this pile of dirt? Some dog probably buried a bone here and you found it. If there were ghosts here, where are they now? I’m actually kicking their ground.” The soldiers looked in disbelief. “Listen, all this is nonsense, I guarantee you that there is nothing to be afraid of. I know you lads have been really tired with long shifts, so to show you I mean it, I’ll post four more men up here, to help with the shifts and give you a break”, he added, eager to wrap this up and head back to the village where the mayor was waiting for him for lunch. The troops were visibly pleased at this, as they hadn’t had proper leaves for a long time.

They returned to the outpost, calmer and more relaxed. It probably was all in their heads; it was easy to get carried away in this solitude. They went about their business, and the officers got into the back of the car and the car drove away. As they were going over the bridge, they saw an old woman standing there, waiting for them to pass. The brigadier turned and looked at her, but thought nothing more of it. About half a mile down the road, there was another old lady, a typical yiayia dressed in black. As the car drove fast past her, raising a cloud of dust, she cursed at them, waving her hand. “Stop the car” ordered the brigadier. He shuffled himself out of the car and looked, but the old lady was nowhere to be seen. He thought it was weird, and stood looking around bemused. “You did see that, didn’t you Troullos?” he asked as he entered the car. “Yes, of course.” “Old hag probably disappeared in the trees” he dismissed unconvincingly.

But it did have an effect on the brigadier after all. He kept waking up at night, hearing a woman crying, and strange noises from the street. The yiayia appeared in his sleep, standing on the bridge, silent and dressed in black, her eyes staring hard at him, deeply set in her wrinkled face. He woke up, time and again covered in sweat, cold sweat rather than the usual sticky sweat and humidity of summer. His wife tried to calm him down but in his moment of vulnerability and insecurity he growled at her to hide his distress under a veil of testosterone. “It’s this bloody heat woman, don’t you bug me as well now” he snapped at her. His wife, a patient and stoic woman who learnt to submit to him and his outbursts over the years, just kept quiet once again, preferring to vent her own frustrations on other things. The brigadier’s nightmares didn’t go away, however. The yiayia kept appearing in his dream, always the same scene, her standing on the bridge, unmoved by the gusts of wind and dust and sometimes pointing at him; him unable to shake off her stare and implied menace to him.

In the meantime, the calm at the outpost didn’t last very long. The soldiers started seeing shadows and hearing whispers, wailing at night and howling noises. They tried to convince themselves that it was the wind and nothing else, but deep inside they were shaking with fear, as if they knew they’d committed hubris and their nemesis couldn’t be very far. Even the newly posted troops caught the fever. They quickly learnt from the rest that things were not rosy, and shared their fears. Luckily the power generator was fixed so they didn’t have to sit at night with just the petrol lamp. They could watch TV, but occasionally the power went out suddenly, always around midnight, something they attributed to the generator overheating until Sotirakis, like the encyclopaedia of horror that he was, helpfully informed them of the significance of the witching hour.

One evening Mastre Hambís turned up with a couple of bottles of brandy and some food, only to find them in an almost deranged state. They were all sitting inside the outpost, without a guard at the gate. They were all armed to the teeth, bayonets fixed and weapons loaded, as if the supernatural could be killed with 7.62 bullets. When they heard Hambís’ voice, they calmed down, as if the old man was their link to the soil, its ghosts and saints. The old man realised that something was seriously wrong. When they recounted the story of the bones to him, he told them the old legend of the village witch. According to the legend, there used to be a witch at the village, a vile woman who always dressed in black, had a black cat and practised magic, giving people the evil eye. This woman’s father was desperately trying to get her to marry, and brought the finest princes in the land to ask for her hand, but she refused them all. She even murdered one of them, and they say he was buried around the chapel, where the trench was dug. The evil witch disappeared and is said to appear around the time of the murder, terrorising the village, although few people can say they have seen or heard her. The soldiers realised that what they’d been experiencing had something to do with this tale. Mastre Hambís was the chorus in this unfolding tragedy, filling in with crucial information inside the amphitheatre of the sun-baked landscape. 


To be continued...
Part of the Army Tales

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Exorcism pt. I

They were all gathered inside the outpost-even Linda the dog was terrified, hidden under the TV stand. The guards did their shifts in pairs, so that they’d have someone to talk to. Patrol duties were largely neglected, not because of a mischievous streak, but as a result of The Appearance.  This was no truant dereliction of duty resulting from an urge to stay tucked in bed or hop off to the nearest town for ice cream. This was genuine fear.

It all happened when that wretched commander ordered them to dig the trenches as a punishment for not keeping the outpost free from cigarette butts and weeds. The commander, major Troullos, had been going through a particularly harsh streak recently. Punishments for unpolished boots and unbuttoned shirts had become his staple ever since that inquest into his handling of the munitions storage and a punishment coming his way from central HQ. Troullos just took it out on the lads. The trenches were dug some time in the ‘70’s, when a realistic possibility of conflict existed and made them necessary. They had since fallen into disuse and ended up being used as a rubbish tip or sometimes a cosy spot for lovers to hiding from prying eyes. When Troullos came round one morning, they were still shuffling out of bed, unshaven and scruffy. Antonís was standing there, boots unlaced and eyes half-closed, supposedly in attention but still clinging onto that last dream he was having about playing in a European final and scoring, running towards the fans with his arms aloft.

Troullos was in a foul mood. He kept yelling at them, calling them a disgrace. “If your lot was around during the war we’d all be speaking Turkish now! And you, Constantinou” he yelled in the sergeant’s face, “is this how you keep your soldiers under control? Look at them! They couldn’t fight a swarm of flies, let alone the enemy! Four days detention to all of you! Eight days to you sergeant! And look at this shit-hole, how can you idiots smoke so much? And why do you toss these cigarettes everywhere-you should be court-martialled for stupidity!” And then he just gazed at the sun-baked barley fields, frowning and thoughtful. “I think that our trenches are far from battle-ready, don’t you think?” The men said nothing, although a light grumbling and shuffling of boots could be heard. “Sergeant, hop in the jeep.”

He took Kostís to the trenches, about half a mile north of the outpost, and issued his orders: “I want all grass and weeds gone from here.” Jumping into the trench, if you could call that small ditch a trench, he said to the sergeant: “You see, Constantinou, if the enemy were to shoot at me, they could hit me anywhere from the chest up-the trenches are too shallow.” Kostís prayed for the shot there and then. “You and your men will dig them down to two meters deep”, he said with glee. Kostís gasped. “But sir, the sun is really hot and this is really hard work, how can we dig so much?” “Shame on you sergeant! If your father’s generation had said the same, we’d all be washing dishes in London now. I want it done by Monday-I’ll bring the brigadier to see your excellent work-so don’t let me down. And make sure you all look shaved and polished too, otherwise you’ll never see your homes until I retire!” It suddenly all clicked in Kostís’ mind. Troullos wanted to be in the brigadier’s good books. They had to do the digging in the August sun. It just wasn’t fair-but then again, very few things about the army were.

The regiment issued them with pickaxes, shovels and wheelbarrows. Kostís was really stressed about it, since he was explicitly responsible about this trench and knew the major would just punish him even more severely if they failed to do as he said. One problem was that Kostís’ rank was only useful to the major. The stripes did look good on his sleeve but he had no control over the soldiers-most of them were his friends from school. They were all conscripts, so rank did not matter at all. Finding himself in this tight spot, Kostís had to do more digging than anyone else, simply to save his skin. That the major asked them to extend the trench a few meters towards the chapel just made things even worse.

They started digging early in the mornings and late in the afternoons in order to avoid the worst of the sun. A couple of hours of digging either side of the hottest time of day and they would probably make the deadline. They all mostly pulled their weight, although Andreas saw this as another opportunity for a sick leave. He ‘injured his back’ during the first morning and was off for two weeks. The rest agreed to beat him to a pulp when he returned.

As Mastre Hambís drove past one morning to go to his farm, he stopped his truck and jumped off. “I wouldn’t be digging there if I were you lads” he exclaimed. “That was part of the old chapel cemetery-you don’t want to be disturbing the dead”, he added, wearing a worried frown across his forehead. “I’m afraid we’re only obeying orders Mastre”, Kostís replied. “Trust me, if it was down to us we wouldn’t even be here. “Well, I wouldn’t go around disturbing hallowed ground if I were you” insisted the old man, as he jumped back into his truck and drove off. “Stupid old man” chuckled the ever dismissive Antonís, who had just come back from helping his father with the potato harvest.

On and on they dug the sun-baked earth, their hands full of blisters from the wooden handles and scratches from the thorny bushes. Dusty, sweaty and demoralised, they shifted the earth on the outside of the trenches to create more depth and save on the digging. “Fucking trench! If there’s a war they’ll probably blast us via satellite” said Kostís in despair. “This is all pointless, the bastard just wants to torture us.” And on and on they shifted the earth, bucketfuls, wheelbarrows full of the red earth. Dead nettles and thistles, gravel, rubbish, broken cement and bricks, dumped by builders. There was even an old washing machine, rusty, with its mouth gazing at the sun. Its cause of death was that hunter had shot it for fun, the shot pellets burning a rusty galaxy of stars on its side. They  found old shotgun shells, broom handles, beer bottles, an old payphone, a doll with one leg missing, a broken tricycle, three dead rats, a couple of snake skins and a very alive viper, which shuffled away in search of a different nest. They threw all these close to the trench, but behind a pile of earth where the major wouldn’t be able to see them.

It was late on Sunday afternoon and they were almost finished with the digging, when Antonís was heard exclaiming “what the fuck?” They all stopped and looked at him-his dirty hand holding what seemed to be a branch. On closer inspection they realised it was a bone, probably a human thigh bone, as Sotirakis confirmed. They all looked at Antonís, as he let the bone roll off his hand in disgust. They all looked at each other, not sure what to make of this. Hambís’ words rang in their ears, and the hair on the back of their necks stood in attention. As the earth where Antonís was digging started crumbling, a skull rolled to his feet, its eye sockets filled with earth. Antonís screamed and jumped out of the trench, while the rest cautiously followed him. Linda kept barking at the bones from a safe distance.

“I think we’ve done enough lads” said Kostís. Gather the tools and let’s go. But almost as if a hand was pulling them away, they left everything where it was and took the path back to the outpost, speechless. Antonís, embarrassed at his display of fear, started to make fun of it all to try and lighten the mood. “Ah come on, you don’t believe old Hambís’ stories now do you? They’re only bones. People dig up bones in cemeteries every day.” But this was different-they knew it was, and as the night started to throw its dark veil over them, they were certain something was not right.

On Monday morning the major turned up with the brigadier, a rotund man with white hair and a camouflage fatigue like the ones the US marines wear, only a few sizes bigger and with a couple of pens in his breast pocket rather than weapons. They had scrubbed up really well and the outpost was spotless. The brigadier was not the kind to be messing about with-he handed out 20-day detentions at minimum, so everything was sparkling.

“Attention!” barked the sergeant, and they all looked at the sky, muscles tense, fists clenched on their sides. “I report: outpost men present eight sir!” yelled the sergeant, perhaps overzealous, as his high-pitch voice started to crack.

“At ease” croaked the brigadier, his voice gravelly from years of smoking cigars and drinking only the finest whiskey. “Major Troullos here tells me you soldiers are an example to your peers. It’s good to hear that. Remember that you are the future of this tormented country and that it is upon your shoulders to protect your homes and families from the barbaric enemy. Just like Leonidas and his thr…just like Leonidas and his three hundr…just like Leonidas and his three hundred fought the enemy at…Th…Thermopylae, so will you have to fight and sacrifice yourselves for the good of th…the nation” he pomped, waving his hand to drive away the flies swarming around his face. He hated coming out to the outposts-the dust, the smell, the pointlessness of it all. He’d sooner be back in his air-conditioned office, reading the papers while drinking his coffee. But he had to play along, as the general was on his case after recent reports of maladministration in his regiments.

“Major Troullos here” he pointed at the major who was beaming “tells me that you men have, under his enlightened leadership, restructured and expanded the trenches. This work is crucial, as this will no doubt be your own Therm…Thermopylae. Defensive work is our priority, and I urge you to carry on with your duties with the same vigour as usual. Major, let’s have a look at this trench!” The major waved at the sergeant to join them and they all entered the brigadier’s brand-new chauffeur-driven saloon car. Kostís had been dreading this. They would find the bones and the deserted tools and he could kiss goodbye any hope of seeing his family any time soon. When they reached the trench, the brigadier commented on the quality of the work, the depth of the trench and the speed with which the men finished the work. When they reached the part where the bones were found, Kostís was amazed to find that there was nothing there-no sign of the bones, and no sign of the tools. As they were heading back to the outpost, he thought that thieves must have carried the whole lot away. He would probably get the rap for the loss of the tools, but he preferred that to a scolding from the brigadier.

“Good job major-this should be an example to the other outposts. Please make sure that all trenches are up to this standard” said the brigadier, bringing a handkerchief to his nose as the whiff of a decomposing sheep from somewhere caught him as he was entering the car. The major joined him and the car disappeared back towards the air-conditioned civilisation from where it had come.

The men were baffled. They went back and looked around for the bones and tools, but found nothing. They asked Hambís if he saw anything or anyone, and Hambís’ frown appeared even deeper, his face darker than before. “I told you not to dig there didn’t I? Now you disturbed them, god knows what will happen.” That wasn’t the answer they were hoping for. They thought Hambís arrived early in the morning and took the tools away, tidying the place up as a favour. But that was simply not the case. And that’s when strange things began to happen. Guards heard wailing at night, but they couldn’t tell whether it was just the howling of the wind or something more sinister. The dog had become more uneasy, and she barked at the darkness for no obvious reason. As they were sitting around the petrol lamp at night, the dog just jumped to her feet and dashed outside to bark at something. Nobody followed her to check. One of the patrols thought they saw a light flickering at night inside the chapel-where no priest had lit a candle for centuries. They kept hearing strange, creaking noises from the roof, scratching and sometimes a noise which sounded like heavy sighing. A general feeling of fear and unease descended upon them, and they all kept thinking of the bones, the tools and the trench. Some tried to make fun of the situation in order to lighten up the mood and conceal their own fears. Some others just kept to themselves. Hambís somehow came round less frequently and looked more serious than usual.

One night the patrol came back terrified, their faces blank and white. They kept hearing heavy breathing and panting, as if a pack of dogs was following them. When they turned and looked they could see nothing. They kept walking, going faster and faster, but the panting followed them until they entered the outpost. Some nights they could hear the sound of horses galloping on the road. Nobody dared to look-there hadn’t been horses in that part of the world since the English made the railway. Linda kept barking. 

To be continued...

Part of the Army Tales

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Lavoura's tale

A long time ago, long before the time of the Turks, when the Franks were ruling the land, there was a rich feudal lord by the name of Markéllos. Markéllos had a daughter, Lavoura, who was of marriage age. Lavoura was a difficult woman, hard to please and very proud, and she rejected all proposed husbands her father found for her. As she was growing older, rumours started to spread that she was a witch and no man could ever have her as she was already married to Satan. As the peasantry in the area was fascinated and terrified by the stories, Markéllos desperately tried to find her a suitable husband to take her off his hands. He brought the village priest and even the bishop to bless her and drive away all evils, but to no avail-Lavoura’s attitude became even more difficult and she appeared destined to end up a spinster.

Lavoura was not what you ‘d call a beautiful woman. Her dark complexion and curly raven hair were only matched by eyes of burning coal. She was rather eccentric and always wore funereal black-something which fuelled the witch rumours about her. However, she had an inner beauty-she was a creature of great determination, loyalty, and above all intelligence. She resented the fact that she was seen as this burden to be rid of, this liability in the household. So much so, that her father was even willing to forego the traditional gift a groom had to pay for the marriage to take place. This attracted many eligible, if penniless bachelors from the area. Markéllos’ wealth and social standing was not to be sniffed at, being married to a ‘witch’ was a small price to pay for those eager to climb the ladder.

Lavoura spent her days doing embroidery, and reading the chronicles and histories, descriptions of events and places far away. Her only friend was her milkmaid Ploumou. Together they embarked on long walks in the fields where Lavoura talked to the birds and flowers. They often went on pilgrimage to the deserted chapel of St George, hidden among the cypress trees outside the village. Ploumou was the only person who understood her, and always defended her when the villagers talked about her. She knew that Lavoura was a prisoner of her fate, her gender and her social standing. That fact increased Lavoura’s resentment towards all the hopeful grooms-to-be. These ranged from sons of well-to-do landowners who were eager to marry the wealth to wealth, to the dregs of feudal society, rogues who’d spent their little property on gambling and ambitious and foolish pirating ventures they masqueraded as crusading. These were little more than raids on hapless villagers on the Anatolian mainland, where they plundered and kidnapped with a view to ransom and handsome profits. Inevitably, their meagre profits were blown on either more foolish ventures or drinking.

One of these, Franjéskos, was determined to lay his hands on Lavoura’s dowry and the land it came accompanied with. He had had enough of the fighting life and wanted to settle down, and Lavoura’s wealth represented a golden ticket for him, one he wasn’t prepared to let get away. When Lavoura treated him with cold contempt, he wasn’t put off. He knew of her reputation but thought he’d manage to break her resistance. He tried everything, approached her with sweet caution and honey-glazed stubbornness. When that didn’t work, he played the hard man role, treated her harshly and appeared arrogant and sure of his chances with her. Lavoura came to detest him and couldn’t wait for him to lose hope and join the hordes of the other failed suitors. In vain. Franjéskos was different in that he never gave up the chase until the day he died.

Markéllos felt that Franjéskos was the one who would finally make Lavoura his wife, and so allowed him extraordinary access to his daughter. He even allowed him to join Lavoura and Ploumou in their long walks in the country, which fuelled Lavoura’s hatred even more. Franjéskos, this vile, brutish man, had managed to invade one of the few spaces where she could find calm and joy. As Franjéskos became bolder and more forward with his approaches, Lavoura became increasingly uneasy and alarmed at the unprecedented intrusion and threat.

And so it came to that fateful day before the 15^th of August, when the peasants believe that unless the Virgin goes to sleep on the day of her dormation, one should be extremely mindful of accidents and carelessness. There was nothing accidental or careless about what happened that morning inside the perimeter of St George’s chapel.  Lavoura and Franjéskos were sitting on a large rock, under the cypress trees, with Ploumou at a cautious distance. Lavoura’s hatred boiled over and Franjéskos’ considerable patience finally ran out. Like two cats cornered against a wall, they began hissing and growling at each other. Lavoura, in a fit of rage, called him a vagrant and a bandit, when the violence which ran through Franjéskos’ blood began to surface, and he started waving his fist at her, calling her a witch and a hag. Lavoura had heard this once too many-the witch thing had become harder to swallow and hit her hard. She sat down with her face in her hands, weeping. Franjéskos looked at her, thinking that he was finally victorious in this battle of wills and that he had finally broken Lavoura’s pride. He immediately changed his tone, and stooped over to her with kind words, hoping that it was the coup de grâce for Lavoura’s stubbornness. He suddenly staggered back, both shocked and surprised at the pain caused by the dagger stuck in his throat. What swarms of pirates and town garrison men had failed to do, was delivered by a woman. Lavoura had thrusted the dagger so swiftly that Franjéskos could hardly react. He held the dagger from the handle, blood spurting out, and as he looked at Lavoura incredulously he opened his mouth to say something, but he instead fell flat on his face, bleeding to death.

Lavoura then disappeared. Markéllos searched everywhere for her, had his men scour the countryside and notified his contacts in the cities to look for her, but to no avail. It was as if the very ground which was soaked with Franjéskos’ blood had opened up and swallowed her, bringing her unfortunate life to an end. Markéllos could not contain his grief and the great shame the crime brought upon his name. He roamed the village streets, the fields and orchards at night, wailing and calling out her name until his legs could carry him no more and he ended up a crazed old man with no heirs.

Part of The Army Tales

Picture from here

Sotirakis the Meek

Sotirákis sat patiently waiting for his replacement. He'd been on guard duty at the detached watchtower, looking after the .50 cal since midnight, with his shift ending at six. Six long hours in this wilderness. He didn't mind though; on the contrary, he enjoyed these long stints away from the outpost and his colleagues. He had a small torch and a battered paperback copy of Christ Recrucified in his ammo pouch, and the watchtower provided the best solitude for reading.

He'd arrived at the outpost a hot August morning a couple of months earlier, fresh from training, and he soon became the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons. Sotirákis was rather simple and quiet, the kind of person who serves as a toy for the alleviation of the outpost's boredom. The hardened veterans caught wind of his manipulable nature within 2 minutes after he'd first arrived to the outpost as a new recruit. He came on the back of the regimental Land Rover and when the corporal saw him, he simply asked him who he was, more out of curiosity, as they weren't expecting anyone. "Private Sotirákis Halloumáris reporting for duty corporal sir!", Sotirákis duly reported in fully voice and standing in attention so vigorously his back was arched and he nearly fell backwards.

The corporal was hardly a 'sir', himself far from being the alpha male at the outpost, having failed the rudimentary exams for sergeants and earning the lowest rank one could possibly earn. That made Sotirákis' response even more spectacular: the oldies knew they had a 'meek' one to play with. The corporal, after he recovered from the surprise, decided to play along.
"What's your specialisation soldier?"
"Rifleman sir!"
"That's a shame soldier. We really needed you to have more specialisations than that"
"Wh..."
"SHUT THE FUCK UP! Did I give you permission to speak?" "You only speak if I ask you a question."
"..."
"Now, as I was saying, we badly need a cook and a cleaner. Also we could do with an experienced and hardened patrol officer, do you think you can do all those things?"
Sotirákis looked at him, unsure whether to respond or wait.
"You may speak soldier" said the corporal, trying to suppress the laughter.
"I would be proud to perform these duties sir!"
"You do understand we'll have to train you-training can be hard and demanding. Are you sure you can cope?"
"..."
"You may speak soldier" repeated the corporal, rolling his eyes, incredulous at the naivety of this latest recruit.
"Of course I can cope sir" said Sotirákis firmly, while his legs started to tremble.

It didn't take long for the rest to cotton on to the fact that Sotirákis was fair game. Apart from loading him with the worst chores, cleaning, doing the washing up, doing the worst possible shifts, they played the most cruel tricks on him as well: they woke him up in a creative way every morning, ranging from buckets of water to tipping his bed over and raising the alarm. They once put a dead black snake in his bed as a joke, and Sotirákis nearly had a heart attack. If he was on guard duty when lunch arrived, they often ate everything and didn't keep any for him. They sometimes stole his personal supplies of food, drinks, soap and whatever else they liked. But he never protested, he took everything with quiet dignity, bowing his head and clearing up the mess, as if his fate had predestined him to do so.

And sometimes they just didn't turn up to relieve him off his guard shift. Like today. It was fast approaching seven and there was nobody in sight. His replacement often saw this as an opportunity to have a lie-in at Sotirákis' expense. And all he could do was sit there and wait. He was a very proper young man, to the point of suffering. His fatigue was always in order, his rifle clean, his boots polished. He shaved his young and hardly visible stubble daily-unlike some of the older soldiers.He was never late for his shift, always on time and proper. Proper, proper, proper.

He'd finished school with straight A's and already had a place in the medical school waiting for him for when all this would be over. His academic nature contributed to his being bullied, as being 'proper' and 'clever' never went down well in a world where macho posturing, boasting, breaking the rules (or saying you did) and physical prowess ruled. His quiet, reserved nature and his respect for the rules offered more ammunition to those who wanted to completely control and humiliate him. He passed as 'retarded' 'simple' 'soft' and even 'gay'. His proven academic record posed a threat to the less literate men, such as Antonís. Their insecurity made life hell for Sotirákis.

Stupid he was not. He knew that he was part of a bigger game, his place in society pre-determined. All he had to do was put up and try and belong as much as possible. He did that by laughing at the jokes, pretending he didn't mind, that he was a good sport. But inside he was burning. And he'd already started boiling that morning by the time his watch showed nine o'clock. Stavrís was due to replace him but he was nowhere to be seen. Sotirakis had been guard since midnight, he was starving and desperately needed to rest. He thought of Stavrís having a lazy morning, perhaps even being awake and sitting around with the other lads, having a cigarette and a game of backgammon. And he snapped.

When he entered the main outpost building, about half a mile from the detached watchtower, he found them drinking coffee and chatting. When they saw him they knew the game was up. Something about the death in his eyes, his demeanour, not to mention the fact that he'd done the unthinkable and abandoned his post, leaving rifle, ammo and helmet behind in his fury. Stavrís failed to read the signs. "Psaraka*, did you abandon your post? You'll get court-martialled for that" he said, his voice full of sarcasm while he was taking another sip of coffee, glancing at the rest for their reaction. Within seconds, Sotirákis had hauled him off his seat and violently planted his forehead onto his nose, dropping him onto the concrete floor in the process. Stavrís shouted and writhed, clutching his bloody face.
"And never be late replacing me again you cunt!"

Sotirákis washed himself, ate something and jumped into bed for a nap. Nobody dared to bother him until about lunch time, when the sergeant politely nudged him: "Sotiráki, come, there's some lunch for you if you want-it's OK if you don't-just have some rest, Stavrís will be doing your shift tonight".

Sotirákis was not meek any more.


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*Psarakas = (lit.) fish, can be translated as 'greenhorn' or 'fucking new guy'. In Greek new recruits are called psaria, fish, because they are 'fresh'.

Part of the Army Tales series

Off to lift some spuds

Antonís was fed up. Really fed up. He hadn't left the outpost on leave in over a month, and the 5-6 new recruits the Captain had promised had failed to materialise, with the exception of Sotirakis. They were severely understaffed and had to do a combined 6 hour patrol and guard shift every day, including the outpost sergeant and sometimes the second lieutenant as well. Passes and leave were really hard to come by. Petros had to beg the captain to be allowed a three-hour pass every other day for his football training.

When this situation arose, the conscripts adopted various methods in order to go home. The most common one was of course doing a runner. The afternoons and evenings, when the officers had finished work, was the best time to jump the fence and hitch-hike home for some food and clean clothes. This was of course extremely risky, as being caught by the odd surprise visit by the officer-on-duty or even an external check, meant a certain court martial and a prison sentence. 

The ones who weren't lucky enough to be football or volleyball players in one of the region's clubs had to either shut up or go off sick. Going off sick wasn't easy either. Sick leave wasn't simply allowed to anyone with a mild cold,it had to be something serious. Or you had to know the regimental doctor, who could give you sick leave without asking questions. Or perhaps, you could ensure you were sick enough for a sick leave. Andreas had chosen the second way. His father, a known businessman in the area, organised frequent feasts (and brothel visits) with the regimental doctor, and was in a position to get Andreas out on 'sick leave' pretty much on will. And Andreas duly obliged-he was more or less permanently on sick leave. When his sick leave ended, he turned up at the outpost to a frosty and often hostile reception. Antonís hated him, as his sick leaves meant that everyone else had to patiently sit it out. Andreas knew this, and his first business after returning from sick leave was to hop on to the regimental jeep bringing the food and go see the doctor again, to his colleagues' dismay.

Antonís was determined to go on leave. He hadn't seen his fiancée in ages, and his father needed his help to collect the potatoes. His cunning plan was to acquire an injury which forced him to go on sick leave but also allowed him to do whatever he liked. He remembered hearing somewhere that if you held your hand over steam for some time, it was possible to break a finger without any effort or pain. This was probably another one of those urban legends conscripts ensured survived for generations from the times of Hammurabi's armies to our day. Unfortunately Antonís, out of school and into the building trade since the age of 13, was almost illiterate and had heard of neither Hammurabi nor his armies. 

So there he was, holding his left hand above a steaming saucepan where the lads were boiling potatoes. He had expressly instructed Stavrís to hit his pinky with the rifle butt while he held it against the kitchen sink. Any more damage and he wouldn't be able to lift the bins full of potatoes onto the lorry. He could do without the pinky, he thought, it was only a small finger at the end of the day. 

So there they stood, Stavrís with the rifle, Antonís with his left hand above the saucepan. "How long does it have to stay?" asked Stavrís. "I reckon about half an hour" replied Antonís, ridiculously over-confident. "Five minutes and we do it-are you sure you can handle it?" he asked, staring straight into Stavrís eyes for signs of fear. Stavrís' had been secretly cherishing the opportunity to smash Antonís' finger, and if anything he was over-zealous. "Sure, no problem at all. But hurry it up because I am on guard duty as well." The outpost dog, Linda, was sitting there, staring at them and patiently waiting for scraps-thinking they were cooking. 

"Let's do this" said Antonís as he turned away from the cooker and placed his hand, pinky outstretched, against the kitchen sink. Stavrís approached carefully, lifted the rifle and smashed it onto Antonís' hand as hard as possible. The loud bang, quickly followed by Linda's yelps, filled the tiny room and rang for a few seconds before the smoke and the debris from the kitchen ceiling cleared. All that could be heard was Antonís' screams of agony, as he was lying on the floor curled up and holding his left hand with his right. Stavrís had dropped the smoking rifle and was also curled up on the floor, holding his ears. The loud bang from the rifle had almost deafened them, and they couldn't hear the howls of laughter which came from the rest of the squad who had run to the kitchen door to see what had happened. 

When they finally managed to get up, they couldn't hear a thing. Kostís, the sergeant, had a notepad and was scribbling questions on it. "Can you move your finger?". Antonís nodded. "Can you bend it?" Antonís nodded again. "It looks very red but not broken to me mate-do you want to try again?" Antonís just burst into tears, more out of humiliation than pain. 

As it happened, both Antonís and Stavrís had about a couple of weeks off, as their eardrums had burst and the regimental doctor had no option but to send them off with antibiotics. They would of course be punished on return, as they discharged a rifle without permission, but for the time being they had the last laugh, although they could only hear a muffled noise. 


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Part of the Army Tales series

Chaff

Mastre Hambís put out his cigarette with his boot. 'Come on boys, not much left'. The soldiers lazily got up from the comfort of the giant carob tree's shade and prepared themselves for another couple of hours of work. Mastre Hambís owned the farm right next to their outpost, and they were helping him collect all the hay bales and stack them up in storage for the winter ahead. The July sun was scorching the red earth as they reluctantly came out of the shade.

Panikkos had a soft spot for Mastre Hambís, as he reminded him of his father who was also a farmer. Mastre Hambís only had one daughter, who had married and moved to Australia, so he had nobody to help him with the farm. An old man of an age impossible to accurately guess, he had the vivacity and spring of a mountain goat. He'd often turn up at the outpost with a tray full of kléftiko and a crate of beers for the boys. It was almost as if he had de facto adopted the soldiers at the outpost. He'd seen them come and go, fresh out of training and into the boredom and solitude of the ceasefire lines, hardened, disillusioned and hopeful out into real life. On his farm he grew potatoes, barley, kept sheep and goats and had the obligatory fruit garden, so common a pattern in the region. Whatever the season, there was something to harvest, something he needed help with, but also something he could offer the boys. Oranges, mandarins, potatoes, peaches, apricots, plums, water melons. They sometimes pinched some fresh milk from the jars he put out for the dairy collection. His contribution came to substitute the dreadful slops the regiment's kitchen insisted on calling food, a pile of something or other which arrived at the outpost in a tin container at the back of a truck, covered in the red Mesaoria dust. The contents of the tin pot inevitably became food for the six or seven dogs and puppies the soldiers kept at the outpost.

They hopped on the cart drawn by Mastre Hambís' tractor and he led them to a field about a mile from the main farm. The hay bales, cubic beasts peacefully sunning themselves, were waiting to be collected. Mastre Hambís parked the tractor in the middle of the field, and the boys started stacking them onto the cart, hauling them from the two plastic strings they were tied with, their heavy boots clumsily stumbling in the caked earth. It was hard work, the sweat was pouring down their bare backs, bits of chaff and dirt covered their bodies and faces, making them look like those images of the peasants of a bygone time. Their youthful bodies were so tanned they had the appearance of leather, their eyes burning bright from under the dirt.

"Aman kopelia*! We're fucked!", exclaimed Andrikkos. They all turned and looked at the cloud of dust following the fast-approaching regimental Mercedes jeep. There was no point trying to either hide or pretend they were on a patrol. Their weapons and kit were left behind at the outpost-they were there to carry hay bales. They just stood there, waiting for their approaching fate. The sight of the Mercedes usually meant the regiment commander or, even worse, the battalion commander, a development which would surely land them in court-martial.

The jeep pulled up and out came Lieutenant Hristofís with a folder in his hands. Their despair started evaporating, because the only person who could possibly let them off lightly was him. Hristofís was a mild-mannered chap who was clearly in the wrong profession as he couldn't harm a fly. His dream was to be a primary school teacher, but he got his exam preferences mixed up and ended up in military school instead. He was always bossed about not only by his superiors and his peers, but also by the odd conscript who overstepped the mark and gave him a hard time. The only time he punished a conscript, because the presence of the commander gave him no choice, he offered a tearful apology afterwards.

"Hey guys, what's up?", he asked as he approached the boys with his folder under his arm. "I went to the outpost and the lads there sent me here. Did you all become farmers now?". "Erm, Mastre Hambís here needed a hand sir, so we did it out of boredom. I hope you don't mind" said Kostís, the sergeant and technically the person responsible for the squad. "That's fine, I didn't see anything", replied Hristofís "as long as the commander doesn't get wind of this, he'll have your balls on a plate". Swearing just didn't agree with Hristofís, and the word 'balls' just sounded odd coming from his lips, even in an environment such as the army where swearing was common speak.

"They are very nice lads Mr. Hristofís, they were giving me a hand, I hope you don't mind", added Mastre Hambís. "No, that's fine, just don't say I said so" smiled Hristofís. "Anyway lads, I'm here for your payment". The statement was immediately followed by loud cheers which echoed in the almost desert-like landscape. The conscripts only received about £20 per month, barely enough for cigarettes, but pay day was always a good time nonetheless. "Thank you re Hristofí!*" they said, patting him on the shoulder, as if he was a mate who'd come back with cans of lager. After they'd all signed the form and pocketed their money, Hristofís jumped in the jeep and he was on his way to the next outpost.

They returned to their job with renewed vigour and in a good mood, quickly throwing the bales onto the cart. Mastre Hambís smiled from under his moustache. The sun was beginning to dip to the west, and the sea breeze was finally starting to blow.

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*Aman kopelia = god help us lads

* re = you, hey you, mate

Part of the Army Tales series

With thanks to KnifeJuggler for the photo

Armed solitude

Panikkos carefully put out his cigarette by stepping on it with the heel of his boot. He picked up the cigarette butt and put it in his magazine pouch. There was no point flicking it away, as Captain Kitsis would only make them collect cigarette butts as a punishment. He was in full gear, standing watch in the outpost's detached watchtower, which was about 1/2 a mile from the main buildings. Ever since the order came from HQ to be on alert, everyone was doing double shifts. His turn had come to keep watch at the dreaded detached post. Dreaded because it was in the middle of nowhere, so far from any visual stimulation that could keep him from being bored. At the same time it was well within the visual range of the Captain, so taking a nap was out of the question.

Since the alert orders came in, the company had set up a .50 caliber machine gun as defence to potential air attack. Panikkos knew that there was as much chance of the attack happening as there was of that old piece of junk being of any use. He had no ammo for the .50 cal, and the ammo for his G3 rifle came with the guard post. It was securely sealed in a magazine holder made of leather, heavily stitched so that the soldiers wouldn't steal bullets. He was not allowed to open fire without permission from the officer on duty. But the guard post phone didn't work. He knew that his best chance was to make a run for it if the worst was to happen. But it wouldn't. This was just an exercise in exercising power. HQ made up a stupid order, Panikkos and his mates had to stand by the .50 cal for hours. Somebody somewhere was having a laugh.

His watch started at 6 in the morning and was to end at noon. It was only 8.30 and he was already bored out of his mind. He tried to divide his time into smokes, pacing himself so he wouldn't run out of cigarettes before the end of his watch. He had a whole pack of Craven A's he'd bought the evening before. He smoked Craven A's because they were so heavy nobody wanted to pinch one off him, they kept away. He'd planned to smoke 3 cigarettes per hour, roughly one every 20 minutes, that would bring him to the end of his watch fine. But it was only 8.30 and he'd already smoked half the pack.

His little radio, hidden in the other magazine pouch, was playing music, frequently interrupted by the musings of the DJ. He liked that one , she had a warm, fuzzy voice, which made him think of nice, comforting things. Her name was Joanna , and he imagined her to be beautiful, with long blond hair and blue eyes. Her voice gave him some comfort in the long hours.

By 10.00 he was really bored. Thankfully the patrol dropped by, sneaking him a halloumi sandwich and the football newspaper, Kosmos ton Spor. He ate the sandwich very slowly, savouring every bite, making it last as long as possible. The newspaper headlines were just commenting on the results from the day before. His team, Nea Salamis, was thrashed 4-0 and was lingering at the bottom of the table. Pushing the newspaper aside, his thoughts drifted to the coming evening. He was due for a pass, his first one in six weeks, and couldn't wait to see Andri, his girlfriend. He'd have a nice, home-cooked meal, his clothes washed, go out for a drink and get back the following morning with his batteries charged.

It didn't help the time pass. If anything, it made him more impatient. He stood his rifle (bayonet fixed during the alert) against the wall, took his helmet off and started kicking the pebbles around the guard post. He picked up a handful and started tossing them, one by one, trying to hit one of the many crows that flew around. He quickly went to the dirty toilet at the base of the guard post for a piss and came back up, in case Captain Kitsis was looking at him through his binoculars. He was really strict, one of those officers with a real chip on their shoulders, always giving the boys a hard time. Panikkos thought Kitsis was in some kind of ego-trip, fancying himself as one of those hard American officers from the movies, perhaps just like the sergeant from Full Metal Jacket. They were not all like that. Captain Ektoros, for example, sometimes came to the outpost with a bottle of brandy and some food and sat with the lads around a game of poker. He was all right, one who understood the futility of it all and had decided to have as little aggravation as possible.

By 11 o'clock his spirits were good. He had two cigarettes left but was less than an hour away from being replaced. He hoped that his replacement wouldn't be late. As the phone was broken he had no way of contacting the rest. The patrol was not due again until about 1. He tried to keep himself busy by thinking ahead, what he'd do in the evening, if his mate Yorkos would be around, if his mum would cook his favourite food, keftedes.

"8.28: Turkish Land Rover sighted". He updated the log, even though there was no land rover. He didn't want the Captain to think he wasn't watchful. "9.44: Turkish patrol". "10.36: Turkish guard replacement". He made sure the things he 'observed' were simple routine, nothing that would cause an investigation or further paperwork, such as reported gunfire. The logbook was full of such observations, as each guard ensured that they left no room for anyone to doubt whether they were watchful, or even awake.

By 11.45 he was really happy. He was sure the replacement would come soon. He was getting hungry and was ready for a quick nap before he scrubbed up and got his pass in the afternoon. He had a hitch hike journey home ahead of him, but he didn't mind. He usually met interesting people while hitch hiking, and drivers always stopped for a soldier.

12.01. There was no sign yet of the replacement, but Panikkos was sure it was on its way; being 5 minutes late was not uncommon. Perhaps whoever it was took the path through the orchards to gather some plums and peaches on his way. He hoped that his replacement wasn't that new guy from England. He was only serving six months and was really lax about such things. Everybody hated the 'Charlie', because they were envious, but also because he was culturally alien to them. And he was usually late for his guard duties.

By 12.15 he'd started getting a bit anxious. "Where the fuck is the damn replacement?" he thought, now kicking pebbles around in fury. He was not pleased, that Charlie, or whoever, was eating into his rest time. Another half an hour passed, it was a quarter to one. He started contemplating walking down to the outpost but was sure the Captain would see him and so he stayed. He tried not to think of it, something must have happened-his replacement would be there soon, definitely. By 1.30 he was out of his mind. He hadn't smoked in over an hour, out of cigarettes, out of patience, hungry and furious. He thought that if he took the orchard path he wouldn't be seen walking back for most of the way, and if the Captain happened to check the guard post through his binoculars, he could always claim he was in the toilet with the runs.

He took the ammo, his rifle and everything else and started walking cautiously back. It was almost 2 o'clock and he'd been guard since 8. Inside him the possibilities were projected, like a black and white film against the screen of his mind. If he was lucky nobody would see him and he'd get the replacement to quickly run back to the post. But if the Captain saw him he was as good as dead and buried. He'd definitely get a 20-day punishment, no leave or pass, plus he'd have to serve it at the end of his national service as an extension. In the worst case he could even be court-martialled for deserting his post and abandoning his duties. This was no joke, he could end up in jail, probably serving another six months at the end of his service. But he had to rest, eat, get ready for his pass. The whole thing tormented him. He couldn't face the wrath of the Captain, it could crush him. He thought of going straight home, at least he'd get a night's enjoyment before he was severely punished. Perhaps it was a gamble worth taking.

He approached the outpost very cautiously, as if on a stealth mission against the enemy. The Captain was the enemy. He saw the Captain's car parked outside and his heart sank. He knew he was in trouble. No pass, nothing for weeks. He approached the gate and saw there was no guard. Panikkos entered the compound, making for the entrance. Entering the main building, he saw Kyriakos, in full gear, sitting on a chair and keeping one eye on the road and one eye on the TV. He was on guard duty at the gate but knew there was no danger. Panikkos was relieved. He saw his mates sitting around the table playing cards. They told him that the Captain's car broke down and he went to HQ in a service jeep. He asked Andreas, the sergeant, who was supposed to replace him. They all turned and looked at him first, and then looked at Yiannis who was sleeping in his bed. He'd returned drunk just that morning from his pass and had struggled to keep his eyes open. As soon as the Captain left, he collapsed. Panikkos went outside, came back in and emptied a bucket of water in Yiannis' bed. "Get up you bastard" he shouted, as he landed a kick in his ribs. Yiannis jumped amidst the roar of laughter from the rest. He sheepishly picked up the ammo and his gear and started to make his way to the outpost. Panikkos took his boots off, grabbed a piece of bread with cheese and sat in a chair to watch some TV. His mind was already hitch hiking home.

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Part of the Army Tales series
Inspired by AH's story.

Fresh around the ears

It's now been 18 years since that day. The day each one of us boys anticipated and dreaded. Despite the assurances of various males in the family who'd already been there, national service had not been abolished by the time our number came up. Whereas girls in our class were free to sit exams and plan their lives as students, employees or wives and mothers, boys had the 26-month 'service' to the motherland to anticipate. Stories from older brothers, fathers, cousins and uncles, black and white photos of their time in the army, all served to fuel our imagination and expectations. What would it be like?

On the morning of Wednesday the 3rd of July 1991 I said farewell to my mother, got on the bus with my school friends and left childhood behind. There were no tears. This was a habit, an expectation, and regardless of how much pain the mother and child felt, they contained it. And so did we. I entered the gates of the recruitment centre as a boy, a lad with a head closely trimmed, only to be identified as soldier number 5983/91. We went through various phases of carefully planned humiliation: the physical strip down, the psychological strip down of personal identity. The donning of uncomfortable, ill-fitting, camouflage fatigues, boots, cap (to be worn at all times), personal hygiene products. And a gun. A weapon. An actual, man-killing device. For training purposes we were issued with a Zastava rifle, a Yugoslavian AK-47 imitation. Don't imagine the opening scenes of the Full Metal Jacket here. There was nothing ceremonial about all this, just endless bullying, humiliation, shouting, but also the occasional moment of unexpected kindness from the odd corporal who happened to recognise you from school.

On the first day, we were lined up and taught to obey orders: march, halt, right or left turn and about turn. The striped sadists used about turn as a means of torture. Even though they were not allowed to order more than 4 about turns without an 'at ease' and 'attention' in between, they were really effective in getting us to burn our boots in the July sun. By midday we were pretty much skilled in the whole thing. We were made to jog to the restaurants, where I saw a passing soldier carrying a tray with chick peas stew, one of my favourite dishes. 'Great', I thought, in my diachronic naivety, 'I love chick peas, the army's not so bad'. Until I tasted the stuff. It was as if someone had shovelled some gravel into a tomato sauce and dished it out to 800 starving, camouflaged boys. Not good. I tipped it into the bin and got myself a bag of crisps from the canteen.

Over the next month or so we were made to run. A lot. Running in the July heat is no joke either. I remember drinking so much water during the day that I had neither space nor appetite for food. I dropped 7-8 kilos in a month. My shirt was so sweaty it was getting soaked and dried up in the heat, with white marks on it. We washed in our spare time, but having only two shirts meant you went a couple of days wearing a stinky, crusty shirt.

In addition, we were 'taught' to aim and fire, break down and assemble our weapon, clean it, make our beds so well a coin would (or should) bounce off them, polish our boots so hard you could see your face in them (for about 2 minutes before the dust covered them again). We were taught to hate the enemy. The specific enemy, with their Muslim, 'backward' attitudes. We were taught to fight them at night because Muslims 'didn't like dying at night'. Bullshit of course. Muslims, Christians, Buddhists and pretty much everyone else, hate dying whether it's midnight or the sun is shining bright in the sky.

It wasn't all bad though. We were taught to use a compass, a map, find the north by using the sun or the stars, such things. But above all we were taught to obey. Obey orders, your superior, the system, the institution. Learn the hierarchy by heart, the soldier's prayer, the soldier's oath. Military songs about parachuting, killing, pillaging and raping the enemy's women. Songs about the glory of our army and the evil of others.

After about a month, having done well in the exams, I was selected to be an officer. So I, along with another 300, were shipped off to a Greek island to learn the trade. Enter another 4 months of running, climbing mountains, walking the distance, shooting various weapons, night and day training, attacking imaginary enemies on real life mountain slopes. Clinging to things such as the memory of a girl, the new Guns n' Roses album. I remember sharing my walkman with my best friend from school who also made it to the island, listening to the same stuff, going through the same emotions, despite the army's attempt to desensitise us and turn us into animals.

There we came into contact with our Greek 'brothers', with whom we had a love/hate relationship. They were suspicious of us and we of them. We clustered around our identity, our little cultural and linguistic peculiarities, against this common foe. Clashes were common, but also friendships. The army's deconstruction of the person is the great leveller, after all. In this school we were 'taught' how to be leaders of men, to take the initiative (but not too much). On the whole I had a fantastic time, only because of the lovely landscape and the frequent exercise, and the bonding with my brothers against the establishment that sought to swallow us up and churn us out as order-obeying robots. Even in our 18-year old naivety we could still distinguish some of the absurdities: the 150-kilo captain ordering us to do push ups. The principle that you couldn't walk anywhere in the camp-you had to run. Weaklings with stripes. Bullies and other people with all sorts of chips on their shoulders and sadistic tendencies. We resisted as much as possible, going underground to avoid detection and public humiliation. A Greek sergeant punished me for eating bread just outside the dormitories. I still remember his name and how petty he was.

When that was over we returned home, to be posted to various areas and duties. I ended up plodding along, having a good time on the whole, but also growing fiercely anti-authoritarian. I learned to appreciate superiors with common sense and kindness. I also hated deeply superiors who were power-hungry and irrational, and still do. Even though I was technically an officer, I identified with the soldiery, many of whom were mates from school. Together we saw ourselves a world apart from that of the 'professional' soldier, whose career evolves around pretending to be effective in the presence of their superiors.

I managed to finish my service without ever being punished, even though I often broke the rules. That was the greatest lesson I learned from all this: you can't openly oppose the institution on your own-it will always find a way to crush you. That's where the idea of the underground was born I suppose. Twenty-six months of an institution working hard at undermining your sense of personal identity and attempting to reconstruct you as a number (not a free man). Thanks, motherland. You taught me a great lesson: never ever ever to die for you.