switch to full auto. He opened the covers on his magazine carriers and removed three extra thirty-round magazines that he placed on the rocks overlooking the trail. Finally set, he peered over the rocks in time to see George Zabt disappear behind his place of concealment. All the other men were out of sight. He looked over to Christos, who signaled for him to get down. There, in front of him he could see the German patrol’s point man coming up to the crest of the rise. The man carefully picked his way along the trail. He looked from side to side, stopped briefly to listen, and then moved on. He was cautious but failed to detect the ambush ahead of him. Pantheras slipped down into his hole to wait. He hoped the German soldier couldn’t hear his pounding heart or smell his fear. Soon, the unmistakable odor of cigarettes wafted over him followed by muffled voices, and the sound of walking men. The patrol was right in front of him.
Pantheras was beginning to wonder how long to wait when a pebble landed in his lap from Christos’ direction. Pantheras crept out of his hide and saw the last man in the patrol had passed his position.
There appeared to be about twenty-five men in the party and they had walked right into the trap. He looked over at Christos and saw him wearing a broad smile, his Sten gun at the ready. Pantheras nodded to the Andartes leader, who nodded back. He rose from concealment, drew a bead on the last man in the patrol, and pulled the trigger. The Thompson ripped a jagged line of holes in the man’s back, and he fell dead. With Pantheras’ shot as a signal, withering gunfire erupted from the seven other men. Pantheras heard the expended shells ping off the rocks. Hot casings rebounded to sting his face and hands. The smell of cordite was overwhelming in the enclosed space but he kept firing. He reloaded twice and kept firing. Attacked from three sides at once, the German patrol was devastated in an instant. Three of the Germans tried to return fire but had no chance. Their bodies fell in slow motion, dead before they hit the rocky ground. Operational Group 14’s first action had been swift, effective, and very deadly. Grey-clad lumps littered the ground as the roar of the gunfire died away.
Pantheras heard Christos emerging from his place of concealment and crawled out of his own hole. He looked over at the big Greek, who was still wearing his broad grin, and gave him a nod.
“George, everyone all right over there?” Pantheras called out.
“OK L-T,” Zabt replied. He waved as he and his men broke cover.
“Gus, head count,” Pantheras called out, as the second group came out of hiding.
“Fine here, L-T,” Kasseris replied and waved.
Christos and Pantheras emerged from cover together, and, with the other men, began the task of assuring the Germans were all dead. The eight of them had decimated twenty-five Germans. None of the Americans or Christos had a scratch. Pantheras wondered how long such luck could last.
“Hide the bodies in the rocks,” Christos said, “so the airplanes will not see them. Take their ammunition, food, and water.”
The Americans stripped the dead of any usable supplies. Christos took two pairs of boots. “Two of my men can use these,” he said.
The men checked weapons, divvied up the German supplies, and were on their way again within twenty minutes.
“You make good ambush, John. Where did you learn this?” Christos said as the men regained the rocky trail.
“I learned it in Italy. I was on the receiving end.” John replied as he walked past Christos.
Two days’ hard march brought them to the Edessa hills and the Andartes camp. They were in Northeastern Greece, between the village of Pella and the city of Thessaloniki. Christos led a group of about thirty men, but like volunteer units everywhere, the numbers and composition were constantly changing. The ten-man core of the band came from villages the Germans had burned, and their hatred of their enemy
Pantheras was beginning to wonder how long to wait when a pebble landed in his lap from Christos’ direction. Pantheras crept out of his hide and saw the last man in the patrol had passed his position.
There appeared to be about twenty-five men in the party and they had walked right into the trap. He looked over at Christos and saw him wearing a broad smile, his Sten gun at the ready. Pantheras nodded to the Andartes leader, who nodded back. He rose from concealment, drew a bead on the last man in the patrol, and pulled the trigger. The Thompson ripped a jagged line of holes in the man’s back, and he fell dead. With Pantheras’ shot as a signal, withering gunfire erupted from the seven other men. Pantheras heard the expended shells ping off the rocks. Hot casings rebounded to sting his face and hands. The smell of cordite was overwhelming in the enclosed space but he kept firing. He reloaded twice and kept firing. Attacked from three sides at once, the German patrol was devastated in an instant. Three of the Germans tried to return fire but had no chance. Their bodies fell in slow motion, dead before they hit the rocky ground. Operational Group 14’s first action had been swift, effective, and very deadly. Grey-clad lumps littered the ground as the roar of the gunfire died away.
Pantheras heard Christos emerging from his place of concealment and crawled out of his own hole. He looked over at the big Greek, who was still wearing his broad grin, and gave him a nod.
“George, everyone all right over there?” Pantheras called out.
“OK L-T,” Zabt replied. He waved as he and his men broke cover.
“Gus, head count,” Pantheras called out, as the second group came out of hiding.
“Fine here, L-T,” Kasseris replied and waved.
Christos and Pantheras emerged from cover together, and, with the other men, began the task of assuring the Germans were all dead. The eight of them had decimated twenty-five Germans. None of the Americans or Christos had a scratch. Pantheras wondered how long such luck could last.
“Hide the bodies in the rocks,” Christos said, “so the airplanes will not see them. Take their ammunition, food, and water.”
The Americans stripped the dead of any usable supplies. Christos took two pairs of boots. “Two of my men can use these,” he said.
The men checked weapons, divvied up the German supplies, and were on their way again within twenty minutes.
“You make good ambush, John. Where did you learn this?” Christos said as the men regained the rocky trail.
“I learned it in Italy. I was on the receiving end.” John replied as he walked past Christos.
Two days’ hard march brought them to the Edessa hills and the Andartes camp. They were in Northeastern Greece, between the village of Pella and the city of Thessaloniki. Christos led a group of about thirty men, but like volunteer units everywhere, the numbers and composition were constantly changing. The ten-man core of the band came from villages the Germans had burned, and their hatred of their enemy
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