Corporal Cotton's Little War by John Harris Read Free Book Online

Marine barracks in Alex calling, ‘Chocolates, cigarettes, French letters. Would you like my sister? She is very clean and white inside, like Queen Victoria.’
    He passed on the message to Shaw who nodded. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Off you go, Corporal. Lieutenant Patullo’s better here.’
    Cotton wondered how much Shaw was influenced by the freemasonry that existed among officers and the thought that if anybody was going to disappear down a dark alley and have his throat cut, it might as well be Cotton and not Patullo who would then remain available to help Shaw to get away to safety.
    Cotton didn’t think much of the situation but he hitched at his trousers and prepared to do his best. Gully climbed after him with Private Coward and Chief ERA Duff. Gully had lit a cigarette but Shaw barked at him about fire and he stubbed it out and stuck it behind his ear.
    ‘No peace for the wicked,’ he said in his thick north-country accent. ‘Off we go, boys, sixpence round the bleedin’ lighthouse.’
    The boy who had met them was curly-haired and dressed in ragged trousers and shirt with rope sandals on his feet. Cotton regarded him with disdain. The boy looked as though he hadn’t had a decent meal for a week, and this, Cotton realized, was the very thing he’d fought against all his life - this image of the Greeks everybody had in England. It was this which had persuaded him to change his name when he’d joined the Royal Marines so there’d be no questions asked -- something that still made him feel a little guilty.
    The boy’s donkey was moored to one of the ring-bolts in the quay. It looked hardly bigger than a rat and not in the best state of health into the bargain. Gully gazed at it with contempt.
    ‘What’s he expect to do with that?’ he demanded.
    Patullo, occupied with the shouting men, heard him and turned. ‘Greeks regard their donkeys as Americans regard their cars,’ he said helpfully. ‘And there’s no limit to what they’re expected to carry. If it collapses it’ll get no sympathy. It’ll just get dragged to its feet and beaten for being difficult. I’m sure it’s aware of the conditions. It’ll make it, don’t worry.’
    They followed the boy between two lines of tiny houses, each one joined to the next; but with its door, patio, balcony with flowers and outside stair leading to the square flat roof, all differently spaced and placed from its neighbour’s, as though in an effort to preserve individuality even in poverty. There were a few flowering trees behind them which threw bars of brilliant colour across the road, and at every turn they could see the dark water of the harbour sparkling between the white walls.
    They climbed a set of wide, shallow steps and found themselves in a narrow alley with high, almost Moorish walls running up to dark windows, and foliage spilling over from an array of flower pots. The boy stopped at a door carved with arabesques, that clearly belonged to someone of greater importance than those who inhabited the smaller houses they’d just passed. The courtyard was leafy and shadowed by climbing roses, geraniums, wisteria and the magenta of a Judas tree. After the rain there was a smell of thyme in the air.
    The boy banged on the door with his fist and after a while it was opened by a small plump woman dressed in black, with a grey shawl on her head. She looked like Cotton’s mother. Behind her was an old man, equally plump and with a large black moustache. He was tall, however, with square, strong shoulders and still looked powerful. He seemed nervous.
    ‘Ask him if he’s the mayor, Cotton,’ Duff said.
    Cotton did as he was told and the big man nodded, so that Cotton decided he’d been elected chiefly because his size enabled him to quell any disagreement among the islanders under his authority.
    ‘Komis, Konstantine,’ he announced. ‘At your service.’
    ‘Tell him we’ve come for our petrol,’ Duff said.
    Cotton translated and the mayor’s eyes