A New Kind of War

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The eagle continued its effortless wheeling and gliding far above them, like a spotter-plane safely out of range, as the last echoes of gunfire finished knocking from peak to peak below it. Obviously, the bloody bird had heard a machine-gun before, and possibly from the same godforsaken hillside. In fact, it was probably just biding its time, waiting for its supper.

‘Do eagles eat dead bodies?’ As Fred watched, another eagle swept into view. So that meant they bloody did, for sure, and years of war had taught them to steer towards the sound of the guns, with the prospect of succulent glazed eyeballs for an hors d’oeuvre.

‘Eh?’ Kyriakos had been busy studying the tree-line on the crest of dummy4

the ridge above the path. ‘What was that?’

‘I said “So much for your bloody truce”, Captain Michaelides.’

Fred was conscious of his own as yet unglazed eyeballs as he stared reproachfully at Kyriakos.

‘You didn’t say that.’ The Greek transferred his attention to the track below them. ‘But . . . not my truce, old boy – your bloody truce.’

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