Observe how Eros works his magic spells,

And how all love-sick mortals he compels.

He quickens their desire and gives it might,

And teaches them to wrestle in the night.

He cheapens gold, to blemish he gives charm.

And to the weakling lends a warrior’s arm;

He makes the coward dare, the sluggard race,

The awkward he endows with every grace.

Love made Rotokritos to hold his ground

And to defy the ten who gathered round.

Lockhart was constantly impressed by Manoli’s knowledge of the classics. Sometimes he felt a fraud. There was he, with a doctorate under his belt and a classics professor for a father, and there was Manoli, the son of a shepherd, for whom the classics were not just texts, but living, spoken works.

They reached Armenoi early on a Sunday morning. Manoli’s plan to hide in a small chapel on the hills outside the town had relied on their arriving twenty-four hours earlier. Instead, they had to make do with a large ditch in an olive grove. Lockhart didn’t care for it, but there was a good view of the dump, which lay about three hundred yards away down a slight slope.

As the men slept, Lockhart and Manoli took the first watch in order to observe the goings-on beneath them. As he looked through his binoculars, Lockhart felt his heart quicken. The dump was about the size of two football fields, surrounded by barbed wire. The main gate was a constant source of activity, with trucks kicking up lingering dust clouds. The compound contained huge stacks of fuel drums, and a large, heavily guarded storehouse in the middle.

“That has to be the ammunition store,” said Lockhart, passing the binoculars to Manoli. “That big hut in the middle.”

Manoli adjusted the focus. “It looks pretty hard to get to—it’s a long way from the fence. Perhaps we could just throw some hand grenades at it and run.”

“They’d just explode harmlessly on the outside. No, we’ve got to get inside and actually lay the plastic explosive.”

“How in God’s name are we going to do that?”

“We’ll have two things on our side—surprise and darkness. We’ll need to split into two parties. The first takes care of the oil drums nearest the main gate. That will create a diversion for the second lot to try and get in the storehouse. It won’t be easy, but I can’t think of a better way.”

The Cretan breathed out. “We were right to eat your Christmas pudding early. I don’t think any of us are going to be here this time next month.”

“Stop being so pessimistic, Manoli. We’re not dead yet, and I certainly don’t intend to be. We’ll be in and out in five minutes—they really won’t know what’s hit them. Come on—how good can these Jerries be if they’re the ones chosen to look after a fuel dump in Crete? If they were real fighters they’d be in Italy or Africa, not here.”