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  To Look on Death No More

  Leta Serafim

  Coffeetown Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.coffeetownpress.com

  www.letaserafim.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  To Look on Death No More

  Copyright © 2016 by Leta Serafim

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-192-7 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-193-4 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015949760

  Produced in the United States of America

  * * *

  For my husband, Philip, and my father, John E. Naugle

  * * *

  This book could not have been written without the insight and support of both of them, especially my late father, whose experiences as a prisoner of war in Germany during World War II color every chapter and form the heart of the book. He, like my main character, Brendan O’Malley, was an Irishman and a reluctant warrior, fond of laughter and a good story, and he worked unceasingly all his life—both professionally as associate administrator of NASA and personally—to serve justice and further peace and understanding among men.

  My husband, Philip, also had a tremendous impact on the writing of this book, educating me about the war in Greece and the suffering of the civilian population during the Nazi Occupation. His description of the heroism of the Greeks stirred my imagination and eventually led me to Kalavryta and the telling of this story.

  I am profoundly grateful to both of them.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Gripping the straps of his parachute, Brendan O’Malley watched the landscape unfold at his feet. Below him he could see the long blue flame of the plane’s port engine, a nimbus of burning fuel, a blur in the air around it. He took a deep breath, remembering the German paratroopers who’d landed in Crete—the terrible price they’d paid, thousands of them shot to death. Silently he prayed that would not be his fate. Unlike them, he’d be jumping at night. He hoped the darkness would cover him.

  The rising moon had been an unwelcome surprise. Not taking it into account was a gross miscalculation on the part of the British major who had dispatched him here. The Americans on the plane said parachuting into Greece now was unwise—that he’d be dead before he hit the ground. “The moon’s like a searchlight,” they said, wanting to abort the mission and return to Cairo, but O’Malley had been determined to go ahead.

  In the end, O’Malley had prevailed. The pilot gave in to his shouting and bluster, fearful of the gun O’Malley was waving around to make his point. But by then he’d lost valuable time, overshooting his rendezvous point by more than three miles.

  God Almighty, what a fool he’d been.

  “Off you go,” the American shouted a moment later, glad to see the back of him, still chafed at him for pulling the gun.

  O’Malley’s chute caught the wind and he drifted, moving farther and farther away from his target. The earth rose up to meet him, the mountains of Greece slowly emerging and taking shape below. The wind picked up and swung him around, slamming him full force against a jagged strip of rock.

  O’Malley screamed as the rock tore into his side, and then again when he tasted blood.

  * * *

  Unbuckling the chute, O’Malley staggered to his knees, but fell back, blood trickling down his chin. He wondered how long he’d been out. Six, seven hours at least. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. In a moment, it was wetting his lips again. His chest was on fire, every breath an agony. Had he punctured a lung? No matter. He’d have to move out and soon.

  He heard someone chamber a round and ducked, clutching his bleeding gut. Germans must have heard the plane and tracked him here. Silhouetted against the moon, he’d have made a fine target, his parachute like a Victorian cut-out, scissored out of black paper. It was a wonder they hadn’t shot him out of the sky.

  But it was only a girl. She was so striking, standing there with the rising sun at her back. He’d have thought her an angel come to bear him to heaven, save for the gun in her hand. He’d seen angels with swords. Aye, the image was common enough, especially in Ireland. But angels with guns, never.

  Unusually tall for a Greek, she was dressed all in rags, a blood-stained man’s jacket thrown over her shoulders for warmth. Her eyes were enormous, gray-green with flecks of gold. Her braided hair was hidden by a tattered scarf. Keeping well back, she coldly took his measure, holding the gun high like a sniper. Probably working for the Germans, O’Malley thought. Took the jacket off a murdered hostage. He guessed she was around seventeen, old enough to have chosen sides.

  A child was with her, a bespectacled boy of six or seven. He kept well back, watching O’Malley with a strained expression on his face. He was caked with filth, his curly black hair matted and stiff with it. His glasses were too big for him and were tied to his head with a length of grubby string, the lenses so thick they distorted his eyes. Judging by the cheap frames, the army-issue look of them, they’d been scavenged, too.

  The boy gave a nervous laugh and pretended to shoot him, making a series of loud hiccupping noises like a machine gun.

  Not the full shilling, O’Malley thought, studying him. Standing there in his old man’s glasses, hopping up and down and jibber-jabbering. The way he cocked his head as if he couldn’t hear, laughed at nothing …. Aye, something was wrong with him.

  His posture was formal, one knee down, right arm extended. Seen a firing squad, the kid had. No wonder he was so skittish.

  The boy danced closer. “Alepou!” He reached out and touched O’Malley’s hair. “Alepou!”

  The girl started going through O’Malley’s things with a practiced hand, digging out his tobacco and pocketing it along with his emergency food rations, a little smile on her face. The smile faded when she saw his surgical tools, the scalpels and glass syringes in the leather case.

  She gave him an appraising glance. “Medic?”

  O’Malley nodded.

  He doubted the Greeks would welcome an Irish doctor into their midst, but with a war on, sooner or later they’d have need of his services. The surgical tools would be his entry ticket, might even save his life down the road.

  He squinted at the rifle she was holding. A battered Bren, it was his, no doubt about it. She must have taken it off him while he lay there unconscious. He slid his hand down the side of his pants and surreptitiously checked his holster. It was empty. So, she had his revolver, too. At least she hadn’t taken his compass, sewn as it was into the fly of his pants. No, a Greek girl, she wouldn’t have touched it, even if she’d known it was there.

  “Siko.” She motioned for him to get up.

  Gathering up the parachute, O’Malley reluctantly got to his feet, nearly passing out from the pain. They were near the summit of the mountain, well hidden in a thin scrub of pine.

  The girl pointed to a path beyond the trees. They started toward it, O’Malley in the lead, she and the little boy behind. As before, she kept well back, keeping the rifle on him, her glossy black braids swinging from side to side.

  O’Malley didn’t know how far he could walk. He ached all over and the taste of blood was heavy in his mouth. He was beginning to panic. Day would soon be upon them, and with it would come G
erman patrols. Goddamn those bastards in Cairo! Sent him here to die, they had.

  Nudging him with the gun, the girl urged him to hurry. “Ela, Angle.” Come on, Englishman.

  “Irish,” he gasped.

  She shrugged, indifferent to the distinction.

  Ahead lay an abandoned village. An old cemetery occupied the hill above it; they ran toward it, ducking behind the tombstones as they made their way forward. Most of the graves were shallow crypts, faced with white marble. The girl paused in front of one and fiddled with the stone siding. It gave way easily, the marble squealing as she pushed it aside. Below was a dank, evil-smelling space.

  She waved O’Malley and the boy inside and then climbed in after them. Taking care to leave an opening for air, she repositioned the marble over their heads, effectively sealing them in.

  Done this before, O’Malley thought, she and the boy both.

  “Alepou!” the boy cried again.

  “What’s that mean?” O’Malley asked the girl. “Why does he call me that?”

  She surprised him. “Your hair, the red,” she said in perfect English. “It means fox.”

  They spent the rest of the day in the crypt. At one point O’Malley heard voices shouting in German, the scrape of boots overhead. Terrified, the little boy began to rock back and forth, “Germanoi!” he whimpered, pointing to the top of the crypt. “Germanoi!”

  He grew more and more agitated and wet himself, a stream of urine trickling down his legs and making a puddle on the dirt floor. Afraid he’d give them away, O’Malley put a hand out to steady him. The kid was trembling all over, terror roiling him like a seizure.

  The footsteps gradually faded and silence returned to the crypt. The little boy curled up on the ground and tried to sleep, batting weakly at the flies settling on his legs. The stench of urine was strong in the crypt.

  The girl didn’t move, just sat with the rifle across her lap and stared at O’Malley.

  She was a fine bit of stuff, he thought, staring back at her. Something out of a storybook, the face on her. But fierce, my God; she was fierce. Singe a man’s balls right off, she would. Turn them to ashes.

  He wondered who the crypt belonged to, if her relatives were buried there. She hadn’t stumbled upon it by accident. That was for sure. Judging by the boy, they’d had a bad time of it.

  As soon as the sun went down, the three of them moved from the cemetery. A full moon was rising, and the raised tombs were spectral in the half-light, the marble headstones alive in the growing darkness.

  Not a good time to be traipsing through a war zone, O’Malley told himself, watching the light play across the landscape, not a good time at all.

  But the girl knew what she was doing; and they soon found themselves walking along the edge of the rockbound gorge. The moon illuminated the limestone cliffs, the savage slabs of rocks on either side. Countryside here was too rough for Germans. Too rough for anything, save goats. He’d been dropped in to Greece to make contact with Greek partisans and build a landing strip—an impossibility, he saw now, given the terrain. He could see his rendezvous point, the village of Kalavryta, at the southern end of the gorge. The town looked small from where he was, the whitewashed houses like a handful of dice in the moonlight.

  Ahead lay nothing, just the stony backside of yet another mountain. They were totally exposed and had been for some time, the trees having given way to loose rock that clattered underfoot, as brittle and porous as old bones. His chest ached, and the straps of his pack were tearing deep into the skin around his shoulders.

  Again, O’Malley thought what a fool he’d been. How he’d argued against the plan from the beginning. Landing in mountains, constructing airstrips. The British commander in Cairo had sent him off anyway with a pickax and a copy of Oliver Twist, ‘to pass the time.’ O’Malley knew he was in trouble when he saw the book. He’d traded it for a spiral notebook, thinking he’d keep a journal. A record of his adventures.

  “Be hard pressed to find words for this,” he muttered, looking back at the girl and her brother. Set upon and rousted by children, marched off at the point of a gun, his gun. Ah, sweet Jesus, how the men in his unit would mock him if they knew.

  He wondered again who she was working for. She hadn’t turned him over to the Germans in the cemetery, nor had he seen any evidence of guerrilla activity in the area she’d marched him through. Odd, all of it.

  The cave was about halfway up the mountain, well camouflaged behind loose pine boughs, less than ten feet square. O’Malley judged it to be man-made, a natural opening widened by hand at some point in time. A blanket was folded up in one corner, and there were jugs of water—evidence of a camp fire.

  Partisans? he wondered. Or just these two?

  “You stay here,” the girl said.

  O’Malley watched her leave with mixed feelings. He’d once found a dead fox in a trap. Even though its leg was crushed, the animal had somehow managed to drag itself and the vise that held it more than a hundred yards before it died. He was that fox now, broken and unable to get away. He’d never get down off the mountain without their help, not in the condition he was in. He’d been well named by the boy.

  “When are you coming back?” he yelled.

  The girl glanced over her shoulder. “Tomorrow, Angle.”

  English. There it was again.

  “I’m Irish, damn you,” he yelled. “Irish from the roots of my bloody red hair to the bottoms of my bloody big feet. Irish, well and true. Irish, in point of fact. Irish, for the love of God. Irish, you hear? Irish!”

  Chapter 2

  Exhausted, O’Malley collapsed on the floor of the cave and slept. When he awoke, he felt better; the searing pain had abated and blood was no longer seeping from the cut on his side. He crawled outside and took a look around, seeking to orient himself. The view took his breath away—a vision of mountains unfolding one after another as far as the eye could see. He imagined he could trace the curve of the earth, the outlines of the seven continents and all the briny seas. Hitler had a place like this in the Alps, he remembered. Berchtesgaden, it was called. No wonder he likes it there, the evil bastard. Up so high, a man’s no longer a man. He’s the kin of eagles.

  Although he’d been in Greece off and on since 1941, this area was new to him. The men in his unit—Australians mostly, he’d been the only Irishman—had run for their lives in April of that year, fleeing Athens the same day the Germans marched in. They’d ended up on a beach in Pylos far to the south of here. The Germans had been relentless, strafing them from the air the whole way. It hadn’t been Dunkirk, but close.

  In ancient times, the Spartans had massacred most of the inhabitants of Pylos, one of the Australians had told him, and sold the rest into slavery. And so it was again in 1941, only at German hands this time—slavery and death.

  He’d been shot not long after in a field that smelled of sheep. A farmer had found him and tended to his wound, dressing it with iodine and strips of worn sheeting. Too weak to travel, O’Malley hadn’t made it to the British ships waiting to evacuate his unit off the coast and had ended up hiding out in Greece for well over a year. He’d learned the language as a result and come to appreciate the men who lived and fought there—these modern-day descendants of the Spartans, whose ancestors had been the first guerrillas and who were guerrillas still.

  A fisherman had ferried him across the southern Mediterranean Sea in the spring of 1942, and from there he’d made it on his own to Egypt. A British major in Cairo had arranged for him to return this time in the autumn of 1943, citing his previous experience in the area. His stated mission: to make contact with Greek partisans and construct an airstrip. O’Malley scanned the mountains again. A futile mission if ever there was one.

  “You’ll do better in Greece as an Irishman,” the British officer had told him this last round. He should have asked why that was. Why the Greek partisans weren’t welcoming British soldiers anymore.

  The Americans in the plane had been only t
oo glad to tell him. Greek leftists were killing British field officers, they said, had killed the last man in before him, executed him as a spy. “Churchill’s against them and they know it. Going to be a lot more blood spilled in these mountains before this thing is over. Civil war.”

  But by then it was too late. O’Malley was standing there at the door of the plane with his chute strapped on, the wind tearing at his clothes.

  Before the war, he’d never been farther than Dublin and then only once, the time he’d taken the train from Cork to sit for his degree examination and become a licensed doctor. A right yokel, he’d been that day, riding the train from Cork in his Sunday clothes.

  Soldiering would fix that, he’d thought at the time, a British uniform his ticket to the outside world. And fix him, it had. Aye, fix him it bloody well had.

  He unzipped his pants and urinated off the mountain, wishing that the British major was there now, wishing he could piss in his eye. He shouted at the sky, cursing him, all the bleeding idiots in Cairo. “May vultures feast on your living flesh and your filthy, wormy entrails fall out! May your wives all be whores! May their cunts grow teeth!”

  Feeling better, he removed the two pieces of his compass from his fly and buttoned himself up. He fitted the compass together and fiddled with it. He’d head toward Sparta and link up with the guerrillas there. Travel at night and hide during the day. Complete his mission and get the bloody hell away.

  He searched for a cigarette before remembering the girl had taken them. He wondered what else she’d taken and emptied his pack out on the ground. His tools were still there—the shovel and pickax—as were the medical instruments, but his cigarettes and every scrap of food was gone.