‘True. Maybe her family shortened it when they got to the States — lots of them did.’

‘Kondakis?’ the driver suggested. ‘Kondhylakis?’

‘No, let’s stick to Kondos. If she had relatives in the village, they’d know the family’s new name, wouldn’t they?’

Mikis didn’t look convinced. ‘Wasn’t it some Hollywood guy who said nobody knows anything?’ He swerved as a goat walked across the track with its head held high.

‘Impressive,’ Mavros said, meaning both the driving and the quotation. ‘William Goldman. Have you read him?’

‘No, one of the guys on the crew told me.’ Mikis laughed. ‘I’m a driver. I don’t read.’

Mavros had noticed the corner of a book under tissues and torches in the open glove compartment. ‘So you use this for wiping your arse, do you?’ He held up a new-looking copy of Nikos Kazantzakis’s Kapetan Michalis, remembering that it had been translated into English as Freedom and Death.

The Cretan crossed himself. ‘How can you say such a thing about a book by the greatest modern Greek writer?’

‘I could argue the toss about that for hours.’ Mavros was not a fan of the great man’s work, finding it overblown and under-edited, though this book — the story of a freedom fighter and family patriarch who dies in a final skirmish against the Turks — was better than most; certainly more powerful than Zorba the Greek, which largely owed its popularity to the film. Give him a poet of few words like Cavafy or Seferis any day.

‘Actually, I was only messing with you. I have a literature degree from the University of Crete,’ Mikis admitted. He stared ahead. ‘And now the fun starts.’

Mavros followed his gaze. A pickup truck with massive chrome bull bars was parked across the road, completely blocking it. Two men in high boots, vraka, and mandili, stood in the back, each carrying a shotgun, while another one in the cab spoke into a walkie-talkie.

‘Shit,’ Mikis said, under his breath. ‘You sure you want to go through with this?’

Mavros looked over his shoulder. Another pickup was drawing up behind them. ‘I don’t think we have much choice, my friend.’

‘Play dumb and British,’ said the driver. ‘If that isn’t a tautology.’

From The Descent of Icarus:

It was dusk when I came round, unaware of where I was until I managed with great difficulty to pull myself up from the floor of the ruined house. I stumbled over to the shattered window and looked out on to the small square. What I saw was a scene of unbelievable horror.

The bodies of my fellow paratroopers were now almost completely covered by those of the New Zealanders, gendarmes and local people who had defeated them. I was unable to focus and struggled to walk, so hard had the blow to my head been. But at least I was still alive — not that I took any comfort from that. I could only imagine that either 109s had strafed the enemy to destruction or that our troops on the higher ground to the rear had fired down on them. The place smelled like the slaughterhouse in my grandparents’ Bavarian town in August — iron blood, rotting guts and lacerated flesh.

Leaning on a rifle, I staggered out into the square and started looking for the woman. I was drawn to her and, if she had been killed, I wanted to lay her out and place her arms across her chest as a mark of respect. But there was no sign of her, even though there were several other women in black among the dead. Then I heard a groan from what turned out to be the sole survivor.

It was the squat British tank officer I had seen giving our men the coup de grace — an action I was fairly sure was not within the bounds of the Geneva Convention. Not that we had been observing that either. He was at the side of the street, his legs covered in blood and his face peppered with shrapnel. I dropped to my knees and lifted his head, then poured some water from my canteen into his mouth. He stared at me in amazement.

It wasn’t long before paratroopers began to trickle into Galatsi, initially observing the drills for taking possession of disputed territory and then showing themselves as it became clear there was no danger from the enemy.

‘Identify yourself!’ came a raised voice I recognized instantly.

I slowly hauled myself upright and gave my name and unit.

Captain Blatter came closer, limping from a wound above his right knee. ‘Where are the others?’ he demanded.

I nodded to the square. ‘Underneath.’ I said, provoking a glare. ‘Sir.’

Troops were pulling enemy bodies off their comrades and swearing.

‘Herman! Throat cut!’

‘My God, the lieutenant’s head’s nearly off!’

‘Two men stuck by the same Maori!’ I watched as the sergeant drew his own bayonet and stabbed it repeatedly into the dead New Zealander’s back.

Blatter ignored that. ‘What have we here? A British survivor?’

The wounded man stared up at him. ‘Waggoner, Captain David.’ He stated his regiment and serial number.

‘How many of my men did you kill, Captain?’ Blatter placed one of his jump boots on the Britisher’s legs and pressed down hard. ‘How many?’

‘My Captain,’ I said. ‘You-’

‘Silence!’ he roared. ‘You hid yourself away while your comrades were massacred. Do not think I will forget that!’

Captain Waggoner looked at me, his eyes dull, then turned back to Blatter. ‘Fuck you!’ he shouted. Blatter kicked him hard and he lost consciousness.

The regimental doctor came up to me and examined the side of my head. ‘He couldn’t have done this himself, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ he said to the captain. He was taking a risk, but the medics were a law to themselves after they proved themselves in battle, as this one had in Belgium.

‘They will pay for this,’ Blatter said, limping over to an old woman who had been nearly cut in two by machine-gun fire. ‘Your children and grandchildren will burn in hell!’ he yelled, his spittle flecking the dead woman’s swollen features.

Without being ordered, the paratroopers set about removing our dead from the heaps in the square, treating the bodies of the enemy without the slightest respect. I was glad the woman who saved me had escaped, fearing that her corpse would have been mutilated because of her great beauty.

‘With a head wound like that, you should be in hospital,’ the doctor said to me in a low voice.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I should be beneath the ground.’

He didn’t understand my meaning. Why should he? We were the spearhead of the German armed forces, we did not crumble after a few days’ fighting. But it wasn’t the fighting that had undone me, hard and ghastly though that had been. It was the dauntless courage and nobility of the Cretan woman. I realized that if I’d found her body in the square, I would have plunged one of the long Maori bayonets into my own heart.

‘Leave this to me,’ Mikis said, opening his door.

‘No,’ Mavros said, doing the same with his. ‘Time for me to play the blundering Brit.’ He walked forward slowly, waving his hand. ‘Hello!’ he said, in English. ‘Is the road closed?’

Mikis swiftly overtook him. The men in the pickup had levelled their shotguns at them.

‘The gentleman is British,’ he said, in Greek. ‘He asks if we can visit the village.’

‘Why?’ demanded one of the men, beetle-browed and bearded. ‘Don’t you know better than to bring tourists here?’

Mikis let his shoulders slump. ‘I’m sorry, but he insisted. He says his grandfather was here when the Germans held the island.’

The men’s expressions remained stony, but they exchanged a glance.

‘Was he sent by someone?’ the bearded villager asked.

Mavros was playing dumb, but the question put him in a dilemma. Should he lie about Waggoner providing an invitation? And if so, how could he get that across to Mikis?

The Cretan wasn’t thrown. ‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘I can’t understand the name he says.’