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.

______________________________________

*Aman kopelia = god help us lads

* re = you, hey you, mate

Part of the Army Tales series

With thanks to KnifeJuggler for the photo

The dining table of life

As someone who lives abroad, I always dread phone calls from Cyprus announcing losses of loved ones. It's the fate of the voluntarily (or involuntarily) displaced. They always tell you that [insert name of loved one here] is in hospital and it doesn't look too good. Half the times your loved one is already dead and they're just trying to soften the blow. It doesn't work of course, it just makes it easier on the unlucky messenger to deliver the dire news.

Just over two years ago, I lost my grandmother. She'd fallen and broken her hip bone, they operated on her and apparently it went well. 'Yiayia' was always afraid of anything remotely related to death however (she'd stopped going to funerals decades earlier), so when she was in the clinic she decided that it was probably her time to be on her way. They said that she kept saying thing like "I'll be seeing my Kostis soon" (her dead husband). I suspect that her death was partly due to her frail condition (she was 96) and partly a conscious decision-she'd simply had enough.

In her final years her eyesight had started to fail her, and she gradually lost her hearing. I loved her very much though, and she always recognised me and asked me whether I'd found a wife yet (Firfiri you are not alone). She only knew how to read a little bit, hadn't gone to school, worked the fields and raised children all her life. She always sat on an old-style chair outside her door, looking at the gate. Every time I passed from there, on a bicycle (childhood), moped (teens) and more recently in a car, I'd turn my head and see the figure clad in black sitting there, enjoying the breeze. It was reassuring somehow, as if my own roots were still secure, firmly in the ground.

When my brother rang and told me the bad news, I kept my composure up until I hung up. I then cried bitterly, like I'd never cried before. By the time I heard the news they'd already gone ahead with the funeral and it was all over. I never told them this, but I was upset that they didn't at least allow me a day to get there for the funeral. I don't know, somehow I wanted to be there and go through the grieving process with the family, and especially my dad who lost his mum.

When I go to Cyprus, we always gather for family feasts. I think it was last year, or perhaps the one before, when I noticed that my brother's children are now sitting where my brothers and I used to sit when we were children, at the edge of the table. Where my parents/uncles and aunts used to sit is where our generations sits now. My parents sit where my grandmother used to sit, as if the conveyor belt of life is slowly but surely moving us from one end of the dining table to the other. The dining table itself is life. I must say that the hairs on the back of my neck stand upright every time I think of the concept. Life is a dining table, and as we grow older, we shuffle down to make space for the next generation. Figure that one out.

Every time I pass outside yiayia's house, I always look, as if I am still expecting her figure to be sitting there.

[Apologies it's a bit of a sad one-I promise you a nice recipe to make up for it]

Image by John Thomson

Dorotheos' Tale

Dorotheos looked at the green land, full of expectation. It was Easter Sunday, 12th of April 1528, and the ship that carried him and the rest of the men from the expedition of Panfilo de Narvaez had finally arrived to the land of Florida. They had heard tales of 7-foot tall men with three eyes, of wild rituals and cannibalism. They had also heard of untold riches, mountains of gold waiting to be had, rivers of milk and honey, endless fertility and even the Fountain of Youth.

Dorotheos had come a long way, longer than most of his Andalucian fellow travellers and soldiers of fortune. The day he left his mother and his native Crete to embark on that Genoese pirate ship in search of glory and, above all, fortune against the Turk, felt like centuries away. His poor mother wanted him to become a man of the cloth, go to the monastery and perhaps help secure her and his sisters. His father had been long lost at sea, and his mother detested the idea that her only son could follow his path. And yet, here he was, about to embark on another conquista, the only El Griego to set foot on this new world.

They had been at sea for a few months, despite the short distance from Cuba. Their first concern was to find fresh water and something with which to tar the ship. 'Don' Dorotheos was sent with three others inland to find some kind of resin for this purpose. All the way to the woods he was daydreaming, full of wonder for this new land. His companions were more concerned with finding something too shoot and eat.

Dorotheos' thoughts flew to his sisters, his mother, his village. He wondered about his friends and his cousins who broke their backs for their Venetian lord and spent whatever time they had left on trying to harvest the fruit of that cruel mistress, the sea. Not him, he managed to escape that fate. Shortly after he embarked on the Genoese barque, they had some skirmishes with some Turks which brought him some money. He was brave and ruthless, and the opportunities abounded. It did not last though. One day the Turks caught him and would surely have cut his head off had he not been able to buy his freedom. He ended up on a Venetian ship, and from Malta he jumped on a Spanish one.

Narvaez brought him to the new world. Dorotheos was as curious and ambitious as the next man, and he swallowed the dream hook line and sinker. He would surely make a fortune and return to his land a lord The musket shot woke him up from his dream. His companions had shot a fowl and were off to fetch it. They made a fire, roasted it and ate it greedily. After their meal they gathered some resin and started heading back to the coast. They weren't alone though. Their hunting had brought them much more than they wished for, as they saw the natives carefully approaching from all directions. They were surrounded. There was no point in fighting, they were too many.

The natives let Manuel go to the coast to bring news of their capture. Narvaez was furious. He sent him back with an interpreter, demanding their release. The Indians did not care for his threats. In the meantime, Dorotheos and his two companions were kept tied up, frequently beaten and humiliated.

Narvaez and his men prepared to attack the Indian village. They had horses and dogs, both lethal out in the open. But in woodland they were of little use: the game was even. They engaged the Indians, and having killed many they managed to capture a chief and retreat. Dorotheos and his companions were nowhere to be found. Narvaez was getting impatient. They had to sail and he couldn't wait for the Indians to make up their minds. He offered to exchange the prisoners but the Indians refused. In a final attempt to terrify them into submission, he had the chief burnt alive. When the Indians didn't respond, Narvaez ordered everyone back to the ships and sailed off with a heavy heart.

Dorotheos' fate was sealed; the Indians had decided to kill them. As he felt the first arrows pierce his wretched body, in that short moment between living and dying, he thought of his friends, harvesting the blue sea, his mother and his sisters alone in the world, his father whom he was about to meet again.

Loosely based on the Narrative of Cabeza de Vaca. Doroteo Teodoro was a Greek, part of the expedition. He was abandoned behind in what is today western Florida and was probably killed by the natives. Real story here. Narrative here.