The 34th Degree

88

I t was midday siesta at the National Bands base when Erin Whyte walked into Chris’s kaliva and found him fast asleep. He had taken off his seaman’s shirt from the night before and looked handsome yet sad as he lay sprawled across the hard cot: an angel with broken wings. She decided not to disturb him and left the Special Forces uniform she had brought with her on top of the small, rough-hewn table. Then she went out in search of Colonel Kalos and Stavros Moudjouras.

She found them not in their shepherd’s huts but a mile away, outside in a clearing they had converted into a firing range. Instead of German cutouts in front of sandbags, they had placed empty bottles of brandy on top of barrels at the target end. Stavros stood at the designated firing line with a special collection of weapons laid out on a crate while Colonel Kalos blew the tops off the bottles with an American Colt. 45. Looking on were young Michaelis and a dozen EDES and ELAS andartes.

“Not bad,” said Stavros, rendering his verdict on his rival’s performance. “But a Colt’s no good in Greece if you don’t have bullets, and a forty-five-caliber can’t chamber Axis ammunition.” The ELAS kapetanios reached over and picked up the standard Wehrmacht pistol, the Walther P-38, tiny in his giant hand. “Now, this fires the nine-millimeter Parabellum round, which we can take off any dead German, and it can be fired single or double action.”

Stavros fired the full eight rounds of the magazine at the bottles, the slide clicking forward after the last round was unloaded. The ELAS andartes on hand applauded, but he missed three bottles.

“I’d stick with your Sten if I were you,” Kalos commented, to the howls of the EDES andartes. “Good for spraying bullets when you’re outnumbered, at least, and it can chamber Axis ammunition as well.”

Erin cleared her throat and broke up the gathering. “Now that we’re all familiar with the weapons of the enemy, I suggest we move on to winning the war.”

“Ah, Captain Whyte,” said Kalos. “Perhaps you might try?”

Erin paused, feeling the enthusiastic glances of Michaelis and the others. There was nothing in the world she’d like better than to show up these macho Greek males, but this wasn’t the place or the way to do it.

“Don’t make the lady embarrass herself, Kalos,” said Stavros, who had already reloaded the Walther and was gamely offering it to her.

It was a challenge she couldn’t refuse without losing the respect of the others, she realized. And to lose their respect would mean losing her best defense against unsolicited physical advances or, worse, challenges to her authority. Reluctantly, she took the Walther and ran her hand over its smooth black steel barrel.

“You boys make it look so easy,” she lamented as her arm swung up effortlessly. Without taking any apparent aim, she blew away the three remaining bottle tops. She laid down the gun and smiled at the slack-jawed Stavros. “But then, it is.”

Young Michaelis’s dark, animated eyes grew wide in wonder. The rest of the Greeks were silent. Now that she had succeeded in securing their attention, it was time to get down to business.

“Stavros, Kalos, you come with me on patrol,” she said sharply, with an authority nobody questioned. “I have your new orders from the Middle East GHQ.”