simmered just below the surface. Most of them were big, burly men like Christos. Their facial features, like their leaders’, were lost under thick, bushy beards that accented their bright dark eyes.
The Greeks were surely descendents of ancient Greek gods or some race of mountain men. These men were strong, resourceful, and fearless. Their abilities quickly impressed the Americans. On hikes, they set a blistering pace all day long. They could keep up that murderous tempo both uphill and down and not so much as draw a deep breath.
They could shoot a running rabbit at three hundred yards ten out of ten times. But their most amazing skill was scrounging. These men could steal anything. When two of Christos’s men came into camp with a case of German hand grenades, John could contain himself no longer.
“Christos how do your men do this? The Germans don’t just leave this stuff out loose.”
“My people have always lived in these hills. The soil is poor. There is not much rain. We keep sheep, and goats, grow a little grain, and make cheese, but at times, we need more. To live in the hills is to know a hard life,” Christos said.
“Yes but …”
“Thievery is an old tradition. The men of one village take from the men of another village. We don’t steal a man’s wife, well sometimes, and we don’t steal from widows or children, but we share what we have. If a man has but two grains of wheat, he will share one of them.”
“But stealing from the Germans is dangerous,” John said.
“No more dangerous than stealing from the Turks as my father and grandfather did, or before them the Byzantines or the Romans before them. It has always been so here,” Christos said, showing his broad smile. “We take what we need. Sometimes we are caught, but not often.”
Christos helped Pantheras select a suitable base of operations. Their hideout was perfectly suited to guerilla tactics against the Germans. The Andartes camp was about six miles away. The Americans, with Christos’ men as guides, quickly learned where the local villages were, which ones were friendly, and which ones housed the collaborators. The seven Americans were joined by an ever changing cavalcade of Andartes in their hit and run missions. Their camp was rough, but the men made the best of it. They could see for miles in any direction, and observe three major roads and two rail lines from their hill. They had escape routes down well-worn trails in every direction, and there were sizable caves in the hillsides that provided cover from the occasional German air reconnaissance.
Lt. John Pantheras lead a dozen operations in the weeks following their entry to Greece, with, and without the help of the Andartes. The Americans ambushed convoys, mined roads, blew up bridges, and most recently had destroyed a vehicle marshalling yard and fuel dump. They had suffered only three minor wounds, and no casualties. It was an enviable record. Their success was beginning to garner more cooperation from the Andartes, who were coming to respect the Americans. Unfortunately, they were also drawing the attention of the Germans who had at first thought the Andartes had carried out the raids, but were now suspicious there was a foreign force in the area. German air recon was becoming more frequent.
Lt. Pantheras leaned back in the shade of the hill looking over his latest After Action Report. The Germans needed transport for their impending withdrawal from Greece. The men had destroyed more than two hundred vehicles, trucks, tanks, and half-tracks in their marshaling yard. The fuel depot had six huge 10,000-liter storage tanks. A couple of satchel charges at the base of each tank had created quite a fire. The burning fuel had incinerated row after row of neatly parked vehicles. They’d watched the columns of black smoke from miles away for nearly five days. Twelve times at bat had resulted in twelve home runs. Pantheras smiled at the thought, but inwardly worried their luck
The Greeks were surely descendents of ancient Greek gods or some race of mountain men. These men were strong, resourceful, and fearless. Their abilities quickly impressed the Americans. On hikes, they set a blistering pace all day long. They could keep up that murderous tempo both uphill and down and not so much as draw a deep breath.
They could shoot a running rabbit at three hundred yards ten out of ten times. But their most amazing skill was scrounging. These men could steal anything. When two of Christos’s men came into camp with a case of German hand grenades, John could contain himself no longer.
“Christos how do your men do this? The Germans don’t just leave this stuff out loose.”
“My people have always lived in these hills. The soil is poor. There is not much rain. We keep sheep, and goats, grow a little grain, and make cheese, but at times, we need more. To live in the hills is to know a hard life,” Christos said.
“Yes but …”
“Thievery is an old tradition. The men of one village take from the men of another village. We don’t steal a man’s wife, well sometimes, and we don’t steal from widows or children, but we share what we have. If a man has but two grains of wheat, he will share one of them.”
“But stealing from the Germans is dangerous,” John said.
“No more dangerous than stealing from the Turks as my father and grandfather did, or before them the Byzantines or the Romans before them. It has always been so here,” Christos said, showing his broad smile. “We take what we need. Sometimes we are caught, but not often.”
Christos helped Pantheras select a suitable base of operations. Their hideout was perfectly suited to guerilla tactics against the Germans. The Andartes camp was about six miles away. The Americans, with Christos’ men as guides, quickly learned where the local villages were, which ones were friendly, and which ones housed the collaborators. The seven Americans were joined by an ever changing cavalcade of Andartes in their hit and run missions. Their camp was rough, but the men made the best of it. They could see for miles in any direction, and observe three major roads and two rail lines from their hill. They had escape routes down well-worn trails in every direction, and there were sizable caves in the hillsides that provided cover from the occasional German air reconnaissance.
Lt. John Pantheras lead a dozen operations in the weeks following their entry to Greece, with, and without the help of the Andartes. The Americans ambushed convoys, mined roads, blew up bridges, and most recently had destroyed a vehicle marshalling yard and fuel dump. They had suffered only three minor wounds, and no casualties. It was an enviable record. Their success was beginning to garner more cooperation from the Andartes, who were coming to respect the Americans. Unfortunately, they were also drawing the attention of the Germans who had at first thought the Andartes had carried out the raids, but were now suspicious there was a foreign force in the area. German air recon was becoming more frequent.
Lt. Pantheras leaned back in the shade of the hill looking over his latest After Action Report. The Germans needed transport for their impending withdrawal from Greece. The men had destroyed more than two hundred vehicles, trucks, tanks, and half-tracks in their marshaling yard. The fuel depot had six huge 10,000-liter storage tanks. A couple of satchel charges at the base of each tank had created quite a fire. The burning fuel had incinerated row after row of neatly parked vehicles. They’d watched the columns of black smoke from miles away for nearly five days. Twelve times at bat had resulted in twelve home runs. Pantheras smiled at the thought, but inwardly worried their luck
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