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rails toward the foothills, marching at a murderous pace in search of refuge before the Stukas returned.
    As for Michael Morrison, American tourist... He was helplessly snarled in a gang of desperate, fleeing men. It was useless for him to try to find someone in command—no one seemed to be in command. Where to go? What to do? Where to run? Where to hide?
    As the afternoon wore on, Mike began to limp from the nonstop hike. He remembered feeling like this once before in his life. Those first weeks after Ellie’s death he had gone through the outward motions of living, but everything inside him had dried up and his mind had been clouded by fear and hopelessness.
    The column pressed deeper and deeper into the foothills. The soldiers were weary beyond words—too weary even to gripe. The terrain became more rugged as they pushed on. When the sun dropped behind the far hills and the air had cooled, the captain decided it would be safe to take a break.
    The men scattered among the rocks and brush after guzzling at a stream, despite warnings from the NCO’s.
    Darkness fell on the Peloponnesus...
    The soldiers fell into fitful exhausted sleep.
    But Michael Morrison dared not indulge in the luxury. Through bloodshot eyes he kept vigil during the black hours. A vigil against the little man in the horn-rimmed glasses and the tall blond man who called himself Jack Mosley. Who were they? How many others were looking for him? Everyone was to be eyed with suspicion—everyone!
    Mike dozed fitfully, but every whisper of a tree, every stir of a restless sleeper brought him fully awake. He mumbled to himself, snatches of poems, dialogues from his books, anything to keep himself awake....
    Dawn.
    The second day the group wandered aimlessly, deeper and deeper into the hills, making for the mountains.
    The Stukas came and found them. The turkey shoot was on again. Seven times during the day the group was sighted and seven times they flung themselves to earth.... And each time they arose and reeled about like punch-drunk fighters and pushed on.
    The unholy rape of Greece was on. Every village along the march of the retreating British Expeditionary Force was leveled to the ground.
    There was no relief. The vultures in the sky hovered over them and dogged their every step. At last the young Aussie captain gave the order to halt for the day. They would move by night.
    Mike kept his agonized vigil until sunset. They might be lurking behind every rock, every tree, waiting to pounce on him.
    He stumbled on through the long black night. Each time he fell a nameless soldier would pull him to his feet and offer a word of encouragement. In the hours before dawn two soldiers half-dragged, half-carried him along the tortuous route.
    The third day found them cowering in a lemon grove near a village, sweating out the daylight hours.
    A wonderful daze enveloped Mike. He could see and he could hear but sounds seemed to come from a great distance. He could touch but he was numb to feeling. He could walk without falling but had no sense of movement. He could speak but his words were inaudible to him.
    While the unit lay asleep, exhausted from the night’s march, Mike sat propped against a tree, his eyes wide open.
    He cocked his head and looked down the rows of lemon trees. Sunlight filtering through the tree tops created weird shadows and the shadows flickered under a soft breeze.
    A sudden glint at the edge of the grove some three hundred yards away caught his attention. Mike blinked. A reflection from some type of glass... Then he saw the outline of a man. The glint again—the man’s glasses. The figure walked slowly between two rows of trees, half in shadow, half in dancing sunlight.... A small man—a very small man—and he walked through the shadows toward the group of sleeping soldiers.

NINE
    “W HERE THE DEVIL DO you think you’re going?” the Aussie captain said.
    “Water,” Mike rasped. “I need water. Village...”
    The captain was about to