Free The Angry Hills by Leon Uris Page A

time.
    “The names,” Soutar whispered, “tell them to me.”
    Mike smiled. “Not on your sweet life.”
    “No time for that, dammit,” Soutar said.
    “I just figure you’ll work a little harder at keeping me alive and getting out of Greece, Mr. Soutar.”
    “You do learn fast,” Soutar sighed. “We’ll argue about it later.”
    The German soldier barked an order in a half-frightened tone. The humiliated, embittered men of the late British Expeditionary Force fell into formations, grumbling.
    Soutar’s all-knowing attitude did much to calm Mike. The two, the tall husky American and the little Scotsman moved into one of the lines.
    “What do we do?” Mike asked.
    “With any luck at all we won’t be shaken down again till we reach Corinth. Drop your passport and any identification first chance you get.”
    “What happens after we get to Corinth?”
    “We’re not going to Corinth, mon. We’re going to jump the prison train.”
    Mike remembered the ground whistling by him on another recent train ride. He didn’t like the idea.
    The line began to move out toward Kalámai. German troops appeared, bayonets fixed, and fell in on both sides of the British.
    “Stay close to me,” Soutar whispered. “If we get separated you are to contact Dr. Harry Thackery at the American Archaeology Society in Athens.”
    “Dr. Thackery—American Archaeology Society,” Mike repeated.
    Soutar shoved a hefty roll of drachmas into Mike’s pocket.
    The line reached the outskirts of Kalámai. The living dead of Kalámai stood in the streets and wept as the living dead of the B.E.F. marched sullenly through. The dead horse still lay in the square.
    A halt was called at the half-wrecked train depot. German officers took over counting off the British in groups of eighty. The efficient enemy had already repaired the rail lines and a long line of cattle cars waited.
    Soutar felt Mike’s tenseness. He spoke to him softly and punched him in the ribs lightly and winked through his horn-rimmed glasses.
    Crowds of Greeks gathered around the depot and wailed. The guards stretched out in an angry line to keep them separated from the prisoners.
    A little girl pushed past the guards and walked toward Mike and Soutar’s group. She held a loaf of bread in her hands. A guard curtly ordered her to stop. The British yelled for the child to go back. She kept coming—the bread outstretched for the hungry soldiers. Another order to halt... She moved on. The guard lowered his rifle...
    Soutar grabbed Mike’s arm to control him. “Turn your head—don’t look.”
    Mike flinched as the shot echoed through the depot. British soldiers in screaming anger broke for the guard. Bayonets and clubs smashed them back into line. The loaf of bread rolled to a stop at Mike’s feet. Soutar picked it up. “The least we can do—is eat it,” he said.
    The door to a cattle car was flung open.
    “Quickly,” Soutar whispered, “jump in the car first. Get up to the left front side. There’s a small opening near the top.” He nearly threw Mike into the car and scrambled in on his heels. In a second a flood of men poured in after them.
    The door banged shut and they found themselves in semidarkness. They heard the ponderous bolt lock them in. They heard the guards climb to the top of the car to mount sentry posts.
    Mike and Soutar were pinned in the corner by the crush of men around them. “Hold this position at all costs,” Soutar whispered. The train jerked into motion, flinging them into a tangle of arms and legs.
    Southern Greece is hot. Especially so from the inside of a cattle car. There was a stink of cattle, soon combined with a stink of sweat. An outbreak of vomiting started. It was impossible to move more than a hand or a foot. They were packed tight.... Everyone stood—to sit meant to be crushed to death. Sweat poured from them and they became parched from thirst and their bellies rumbled with hunger.
    After an hour men began passing out. But