When no one could think of a story that had not been told, they sat abstracted, conscious of the quiet of the ruined seafront and the streets about them.
After long silence, Alan said: ‘When I camped out on the battlefield of Marathon, I was awakened by the sound of swords striking against shields.’ He seemed to be confessing to an experience which in normal times he would not care to mention, and the others, impressed against reason, knew he spoke the truth. Ben Phipps said that he came from Kineton and had often been told that local farmers would not cross Edgehill at night.
Roger Tandy grunted several times and at last brought out: ‘Everyone’s heard something like that. In Ireland there’s a field where a battle was fought in the fourth century of the world – and the peasants say they can still hear them banging away.’
The others laughed but even Guy, the unpersuadable materialist, was caught into the credulous atmosphere and discussed with the others the theory that anguish, anger, terror and similar violent emotions impressed themselves upon the ether so that for centuries after they could be perceived by others.
Harriet imagined their own emotions impinging upon the atmosphere of earth and wondered how long her own shade would walk through the Zappion Gardens, not alone.
Ben took his bullet out of his pocket and rolled it across the table. Did they suppose, he asked, that his emotions had become fixed in the doorway where he had been a target for the German air-gunners?
Yakimov tittered and said: ‘Must have been harrowing, dear boy. Did you change colour?’
‘Change colour? I bloody near changed sex.’
Alan gave a howl of glee and, leaning back against the wall, wiped his large hands over his face and gasped: ‘Oh dear!’ In this exigency, fear was the final absurdity. They could do nothing but laugh. They were still laughing when the proprietor told them apologetically that he had to close the café. In happier days he would be glad to have them drink all night; but now – he made a gesture – the explosion had destroyed his living quarters and he had to walk to his brother’s room at Amfiali.
No one had come into the café except the English party and Alan asked the proprietor why he troubled to stay open. He replied that during the day the café was used by longshoremen and dock workers, and sometimes a few came in after dark. Apart from them, the district was deserted.
‘Where has everyone gone?’
The man made an expressive gesture. Many were dead, that went without saying; so many that no one yet knew the number. Others were camping in the woods round Athens.
‘God save us,’ muttered Tandy. ‘We’ve had war and famine; the next thing’ll be plague. We’ve all got dysentery, and if we don’t get typhoid, it’ll be a miracle.’
Sobered, they went out in the cold night air and made their way to the bus stop by the light of the waning moon.
There were English soldiers again in the cafés but they had lost their old sociability. They knew they would not be in Greece much longer and, conscious of the havoc they had brought, were inclined to avoid those who had most to lose by it.
One of Guy’s students shouted at him in the street: ‘Why did they come here? We didn’t want them,’ but there were few complaints. The men were also victims of defeat. Seeing them arriving back in torn and dirty battle-dress, jaded by the long retreat under fire, the girls again threw them flowers; the flowers of consolation.
On Wednesday evening Guy went to the School and found it deserted. Harriet had walked there with him and on the way back they looked into several bars, hoping to see someone who could give them news. In one they saw a British corporal sprawled alone against the counter and singing to a dismal hymn tune:
‘When this flippin’ war is over,
Oh, how happy I shall be!
Once I get m’civvy clothes on
No more soldiering for me.
No more asking for a favour;
No more pleading for a pass …’
He broke off at the sight of the Pringles and when Guy invited him to a drink he straightened himself up, and assumed the manners of normal life.
‘English are you?’ he said and, too polite to express his bewilderment at their presence in this beleaguered place, eyed them cautiously from head to foot.
They began at once to ask him about events. He shook his head and said: ‘Funny do. They say there were millions of them.’
‘Really? Millions of what?’
‘Jerries on flippin’ motor-bikes. The Aussies picked them off so fast, there was this pile-up and they had to dynamite a road through them. And all the time Stukas and things buzzing round like flippin’ hornets. Never saw anything like it. Didn’t stand a chance. Right from the start; not a chance.’
‘Where are the Germans now?’ Harriet asked.
‘Up the road somewhere.’
‘Not far, you think?’
‘Not unless someone’s stopped them.’
Guy said: ‘They say the New Zealanders are still holding at the Aliakmon.’
‘When did y’hear that, then?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Ho, yesterday!’ the Corporal grunted: yesterday was not today. When Guy ordered him another drink, he looked the Pringles over again and felt forced to speak: ‘What are you two doing here, then? You’re not hanging on, are you?’
‘We’re hoping something will happen. The situation could be reversed?’
‘Don’t know about that. Can’t say.’
‘And you? What are going to do?’
‘We’re told to make for the bridge.’
‘Which bridge?’
‘Souf,’ said the Corporal. ‘Our lot’s going souf,’ then as it occurred to him that he was saying too much, he downed his drink at a gulp, picked up his cap and said: ‘Be seeing you,’ and went.
From this information, such as it was, the Pringles surmised that the British forces intended to hold the Morea. They set off to take their news to Tandy’s table; but Ben Phipps was there before them and his agitated indignation put the Corporal right out of mind.
‘What do you think?’ Phipps demanded of them. ‘You’d never believe it. I’ve just come from the Legation. There’s nothing laid on. Not a thing. Not a ghost of a plan. Not a smell of a boat. We’re done for. Do you realize it? We’re done for.’
‘Who told you this?’ Tandy asked.
‘They told me themselves. I said: “What are the arrangements for evacuating the English refugees?” and they just said, they just calmly said: “There aren’t any arrangements.” The excuse is they didn’t know what was going to happen. “Well, you know now,” I said. “And people are getting anxious. No one’s making a fuss, but they want to know what’s being done for them. They can’t just sit here waiting for the Germans to come. What’s laid on?” I asked. Nothing they said: just nothing. There aren’t any ships.’
Yakimov said, shocked: ‘Dear boy, there must be ships.’
‘No,’ Ben Phipps shook his head in violent denial. ‘There are no ships.’
‘The Yugoslavs say they’re going,’ Tandy said.
‘Oh, yes. The Yugoslavs are being looked after. The Poles, too. Someone’s fixed them up – don’t ask me who – but there’s nothing for the poor bloody British. I said: “Can’t you pack us in with the Jugs and Poles?” And they said: “Their boats are already overcrowded”.’
Tandy stared at the street with a reflective blankness. Only Ben Phipps had anything to say: ‘The usual good old British cock-up, eh? Isn’t it? I said: “Don’t you realize the Germans could be here in twenty-four hours?” and what d’you think they said? They said: “It all happened so suddenly.” Suddenly! Yes, it did happen suddenly, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t obvious from the start. We ought to have kept out of this shindig. It’s not only that we’ve done no good. If we hadn’t stuck in our two-pennyworth, they might have got away with it. We send a handful of men up with a few worn-out tanks, then say: “We didn’t know.” I ask you! What did they think?’