LUCKY IN CYPRUS: The Cold War Invades The Schoolyard

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Anti-British riots in Egypt and a mob assault on a Cypriot police station were at the root of the attack on Lucky that day.

Prior to the holidays the boy’s history teacher - a young woman brimming with liberal ideals - had assigned the class an essay on the influences of the Romans on modern British history. During the Christmas recess, Lucky had worked diligently and enthusiastically on the essay. One of the few joys the school offered was his discovery that British history and Roman history coincided for so many hundreds of years. After all, Julius Caesar, himself, had conquered the barbaric people of England fifty odd years before the birth of Christ.

The result was much more class time was spent on Roman history than in the States. Lucky thought that was marvelous. Only his love for the ancient Greeks topped his devotion to the Romans of old and he pored over all the stories of Romulus and Remus, Horatio On The Bridge and the marching legions battling the German tribes. But the more he considered his essay, the more he realized just how broad the topic was and how difficult it might be to fix on some specific modern thing of historic importance that had to do with the old Romans.

An overheard discussion during his father’s weekly chess night with his CIA colleagues sparked the essay that got him in so much trouble. In some ways, Lucky’s father and his fellow agents were as liberal as his teacher - although they were certainly far more cynical than that young woman, since most of them had waded through rivers of blood during the recent war. At the same time they were also marked by a strong streak of romanticism that both hated and treasured that cynicism.

They saw themselves as Renaissance men with pipes and slide rules and professed hard boiled opinions on philosophy, history and the general fate of mankind. They were cold-blooded Cold War warriors with democratic ideals. They firmly believed America should fight Russia now, because in the end the two nations were destined to fight – and the Western World - with its democratic ideals - must prevail. At the same time they had some sympathy with socialist thinking. Forged during the America’s Great Depression, most of the men had first-hand experience with poverty. They also deplored the racism that permeated U.S. society and thought it only natural that a poor man would be enticed by Communist proselytizing.

Joe Davis, a Texan who was one of Lucky’s father’s closest friend, liked to say: "In the olden days the kings used to hang a man for stealin’ a loaf a bread to feed his starvin’ kids. By God, my daddy did that and worse not many years ago. And if they’d a hung him when I was away at war I’d of come back and shot ever single son of bitch who had anything to do with it."

Opinions of that kind were repeated and discussed at the floating CIA chess party that each man hosted in turn. Lucky frequently sat in on the games when it was his father’s turn to play host. Despite his youth, he was an excellent player and was always welcome to join in if one of the regulars couldn’t attend. During those games the boy kept his mouth shut while he played and listened closely to everything that was said. When the evening grew late and drinking deep he knew if he sat over in a corner in the shadow of the console radio the men tended to forget his presence and speak more openly.

On the night in question, they were discussing Gen. Eisenhower’s victory over Adlai Stevenson in the November presidential election. Although most were in favor of Stevenson’s domestic policies, they were happy to see their old commander at the helm. They were especially impressed because, as promised during the campaign, Eisenhower had flown in Korea to assess the situation. The trip was made in secret in November and the details were just coming out.

"I hear the Russians are messin’ their britches," Davis said. "Even Stalin’s scared of Ike. He’s a bad old bastard and Stalin knows he’ll do whatever it takes."

Someone ventured: "Assassination?"

Davis shrugged and took a long pull on his drink. "That’s what I hear from upstairs," he said. "Soon as Ike’s sworn in, all bets are off. If I was Stalin I wouldn’t stand so tall at the next May Day Parade. Liable to get himself tweeped."

Lucky knew that "tweep" was agency talk for "Terminate With Extreme Prejudice" – an order for a sanctioned assassination.

Lucky’s father shook his head. "Our allies worry me more than Stalin," he said. "At least he’s our admitted enemy. It’s the English and the French who are getting our people killed."

There were murmurs of agreement. "Damned Colonialists," somebody said. "They won’t let go!"

Davis agreed. "Look at those riots in Egypt," he said. "We warned them what was gonna happen. But they kept on goin’. And they are gonna lose the place by and by. Thing is, none of it’s necessary. The Brits, like the French, are ham-handed colonialists. Keep everybody under their thumb because they can’t do the same to the homefolks at home. Take it out on some WOG. Shoot, the Brits are just beggin’ for trouble."

Somebody snorted derision. "Same thing’s happening here in Cyprus," the guy said. "We’re all sitting on a powder keg because the Brits are so blind."

Lucky frowned, thinking of Sandros and all those fire bombs he was stashing away for when the time came to rise up and strike a blow for Enosis.

Davis said, "I suppose y’all saw the report about the bust up at the cop shop over by Kyrania."

Everybody made noises of agreement. Although it wasn’t the official British line, what had happened was that a little village outside of the beach city of Kyrenia was saddled with a particularly arbitrary - and brutal - police force. As usual, all the cops were Turkish Cypriots. The riot was triggered by the arrest of an anti-British agitator during a Christmas service at the local Orthodox Church.

The end result was an attack on the police station. Boys threw gasoline bombs, while more than a score of men - armed with rocks, cudgels and farm implements - waited for the policemen to flee the burning building. At such a small village, there were only seven officers to confront the mob. One policeman was killed - stoned to death. Six more were badly injured. The main agitator scampered away before reinforcements arrived and rumor had it that the village hero was hiding up in the mountains above Episkopo in one of the monasteries.

Lucky’s father said, "Joe’s right. The English ought to pay more attention to their own history. They’ve patterned themselves after the Romans, but don’t seem to take the lesson of the Roman mistakes."

"The Egyptian corn harvest riots," somebody said. "Back in the time of the Caesars."

"Shoot," Davis put in, "the Egyptians have been riotin’ since even before the Romans. Hell, they gave Alexander’s boys a hot old time. And the exact same situation exists today. Which is my whole point. The limeys aren’t stupid, but they are blind to their past mistakes. They know their Roman history, because the Romans had them by the nuts for half a thousand years. But they can’t seem to put it together with their own. What’s that bit about history bein’ doomed to repeat itself?"

There a moment of silence as everyone reflected. Then someone asked: "What about the police station thing? Should we worry?"

Everyone turned to look at Davis, an OSS veteran who had spent most of the last war fighting behind enemy lines. Davis shrugged. "The Limeys are gonna mess it up," he said. "They always do, so we might as well get used to it." He took a long drink, then said, "Don’t know about you boys’ but I’m through solving the Limey’s problems. How about we play more chess?"

Everybody chuckled, freshened their drinks and got down to some playing.

The agent Lucky was filling in for finally showed up and so he moved off to the side, thinking over what he’d heard. That whole Roman corn riots thing had him fascinated. (He knew, of course, that they weren't refering to corn, as in corn on the cob. It was a general term in olden days for seed crops of any kind.) He could see a real connection to the fading British empire and how they were trying so desperately to hold onto it. All to the detriment of the people in their colonies – like Egypt, and… well like Cyprus. Many of them treated the people scornfully, as if they were less than human. It was that attitude, Lucky thought, that made the Cypriots yearn for freedom, for Enosis. And surely it was that attitude that was to blame for the deadly attack on the police station.

So Lucky had his essay. He called it, "The Last Sunset," a play on the old saying that "The sun never sets on the British Empire." His theme was that the British empire had been doomed from the beginning because the English failed to learn the lessons of ancient Rome. They’d already lost India, Egypt was next, then the African colonies and surely Cyprus wasn’t very far away.

The teacher was thrilled. He’d strummed all the right chords in her socialist philosophy. She was so taken by the essay, that she’d had Lucky read it aloud in class.

Its reception with the other schoolboys was not so fine. At first, he was rewarded with wide grins from boys grateful for this break in the classroom tedium. But as he read on, detailing Lucky’s imagined sins of British political leaders, some of them began to glower and whisper fiercely to one another. When he was done, he was greeted with a cold silence. The teacher looked puzzled at first, then alarmed. She rose to addressed the class – possibly to defend the essay, Lucky thought, but then the bell rang and the boys burst from their seats and rushed out. Some of them jostled Lucky and a few were so bold as to call him a "bloody Yank."

Miserable, Lucky filed out after them. The teacher stopped him. "Don’t worry," she said, "they’ll see your meaning when they’ve had time to think it through."

"Yes ma’am," Lucky said.

"It was a good, bold essay," the teacher continued. "You were only speaking your mind. That’s a good thing."

"Yes ma’am," Lucky said again.

The teacher started to say more, but the look on his stricken face silenced her. She patted his shoulder and Lucky exited the room.

In the hallway, a few of the boys were waiting. Lucky knew them to be members of Simms’ group. This he had expected. What startled him, though, was the presence of Derek among them. The boy’s mother was making him wait until the end of the semester to transfer. Even so, these were the very fellows who were abusing Derek and making his life miserable. Why was he here? And why did he look as hostile as the others.

One of the larger boys, Aston, stepped forward to confront Lucky. "Think you can say stuff like that and get away with it?" Aston demanded.

"I didn’t mean anything," Lucky said. "It was just an assignment. We all had to write something over the holiday."

"You’re the only one that said nasty things about England," Aston said. "Like a bleedin’ Communist."

Aston raised a threatening hand, then thought better of it when Lucky shifted his books from his right to his left. He didn’t like that Communist remark. Even so, he’d only get in trouble if there was a fight in the hallway.

"Turning my Christmas holiday assignment in on time doesn’t make me a Communist," Lucky said.

Aston glowered. Like many of the other boys, he’d made weak excuses for not finishing his essay. "We’re not bum lickers like you," he said. "Kissin’ the teacher’s arse. And we don’t say nasty stuff about England."

"Yeah," came a small voice. He looked over. It was Derek. He flushed when Lucky looked at him. Then lowered his head and muttered something under his breath.

Lucky turned back to Aston. "If you don’t like it, you can lump it." Just then the warning bell rang. Lucky shifted his books back into his right hand. "I’ve got a class," Lucky continued. "If you dopes want to get into trouble messing around in the halls, then it’s your problem."

He strode off, shoulders straight, head high. But he was tense - waiting for something to hit him in the back. His next class was physical education, which consisted of a series of exercises in their regular school clothes and a session of soccer, or some other sport like rounders, a boring form of baseball.

This was both good and bad. It was good, because the class was out in the open and Lucky could see if anyone was trying to ambush him. The class was also semi-supervised, so if a fight was forced, Lucky could appeal to one of the teachers to make it fair. It was perfectly acceptable – even encouraged by some teachers - to settle differences in one-on-one fights with boxing gloves, supervised by a teacher. But none of the boys wanted to box Lucky, because they knew what had happened to Simms.

On the other hand, the teachers frequently used the class as their own personal time. There were no formal physical education coaches – it was an activity that rotated among the male teachers, some of whom would rather catch a smoke or a coffee, or even a nap. It was not uncommon for the ending bell to bring a sleepy-eyed teacher out of the equipment room - a converted gardener’s shed that could be locked from the inside.

If he caught a napping teacher that session, and if Aston alerted Simms and his pals, Lucky could be in big trouble. He took a breath. Okay, he’d just have to be careful. First he had to arm himself. He glanced back, Aston was gone – so was Derek - but several other boys were following him. They were all in his PE class, so on the surface it didn’t appear suspicious. But Lucky knew they were shadowing him. If he stopped to rummage in his book bag for the weapon Sandros had constructed, or ducked into the boy’s room, they’d whistle up help and be on him.

In the name of all the saints, why had he written that essay? He should have settled on something about the influence of Roman roads or aqueducts. Why had he drawn attention to himself? And the teacher! Why had she made him read it out loud? Couldn’t she just have graded the paper and left it at that? Oh, but it wasn’t her fault. It was his and his alone. Lucky was Mister Big Shot, the snot-nosed CIA brat who listened in on a classified conversations and had to show off that he knew things other people didn’t. Of course, he’d given nothing away, but he’d never have thought to connect all those modern political events with ancient Rome and the demise of the British empire. Heck, even if it wasn’t true, it still made a whale of an essay topic. And now he was in a whale of a lot of trouble.

He’d be fortunate if only Moby Dick fell on him.

As he strolled onto the field, Lucky noted there were only a few boys present – and none of the teachers. He’d been moving too fast trying to stay ahead of his stalkers. He clutched his school bag close and walked toward the equipment shed. He slid the straps open, bent the flap back, then took off his cap. Ostentatiously, he stuffed his cap in the satchel. Meanwhile, his fingers were crawling around for his weapon. All he encountered were books, notebooks and pencil cases. He dug deeper, fingernails scraping bottom and finding nothing but lint, dirt and crumbs.

Where the hell was it?

Then his fingers closed on a slender wand and he started feeling a little better. Actually, Sandros had constructed two weapons for hand-to-hand combat. This was the lesser of the weapons – a car antennae. It was a telescoping wire that collapsed to about 12 inches and extended to nearly a yard. Sandros had snapped it off someone’s car – a Turkish cop’s Jeep, he claimed. Then he’d attached a small fish-weight to the tip, fixing it with black electrical tape. He also wrapped the bottom with tape, but thickly, to give a good handhold. The idea was when you snapped your wrist, the fish weight would carry the wire whip out to its full length. This made a formidable weapon against a multitude of attackers.

He showed Lucky how to use it. Snapping it out – letting the weight carry the tip out all the way. Then whipping hands, wrists, faces – any exposed skin that presented itself. They practiced on bushes and hedges and once on a cactus tree. The wire whip cut so deeply into the fleshy cactus that Lucky was appalled.

"I don’t want to really hurt anybody," Lucky protested. "This is like a knife."

"Never you mind about that, Lucky," Sandros replied. "I could make you a gun – a single shot gun. But this is school affair, correct? Many vicious boys against one, yes? Of course, it is. Use the wire whip and the lead knuckles I’m going to make you and the authorities will be satisfied. Never mind a gun, if you used a rock in a sling shot you could take them, yes?"

Lucky nodded. He’d become quite expert at the Cypriot slingshot – which was a heavy band of pure, red rubber, attached to a piece of leather for the sling. You gripped the rubber in your fist, pulled back, and let fire a rock. The result could be devastating. Lucky had seen a goat herder bring down a mad dog with one well-placed shot that collapsed the ribs and smashed the poor crazy animal’s heart. Sling shots were forbidden at school, as were penknives, or anything that could be considered a weapon. Thus far, even when his book bag had been searched, no one had recognized the wire whip for what it was. As for the lead knuckles, he’d managed to juggle them around to defy discovery. This was his current problem – he’d hidden them too well.

The knuckles were the truly devastating weapon of choice – especially when worked in conjunction with the wire whip. To make the lead knuckles, Sandros had hammered a two-ounce fish weight into a shape that comfortably fit Lucky’s fist. This he’d wrapped with electrical tape, to give it a good grip and to help absorb some of the shock.

"You don’t want to break your fist on their heads, Lucky," he advised. "Strike for soft parts, or the jaw or the side of the face. Avoid the teeth or you will cut yourself and suffer a great sickness."

Lucky already knew about the perils of teeth hitting. In the States he’d knocked down a school bus bully with one blow. It was the perfect shot, the one his Grandpop Guinan had taught him, with the grabbing of the opponent’s left elbow, turning him into the punch. Unfortunately, the blow hit the bully square in the teeth, cutting the hell out of Lucky’s knuckles. So while the bully was humiliated and momentarily incapacitated, Lucky fist swelled up to the size of a melon and became a red and purple monster full of full of pain and pus that smelled to high heavens. It took a shot of penicillin to knock out the infection and the doctor laughed while he did the deed and informed the boy that the human mouth was "the filthiest thing in the world."

But as Lucky rushed across the field, looking for some way to escape his dilemma, he knew damned well that it wasn’t a punch into the teeth he had to worry about. Heck, there was no way this would be one of his grandfather’s one-punch knockouts. There were too many of them.

He dug out the wire whip, hid it in his hand. Then he was at the equipment shed. He stopped in front of the door, knowing there was no one inside, but putting on an act to gain time. Lucky knocked, shouting, "Sir, may we have a ball, sir?"

There was no answer, because there was no teacher present. Even so, Lucky pretended he heard something. He leaned closer to the door. "What’s that you said, sir?"

He was playing to the audience of his enemies gathering behind him. Meanwhile, he was still scratching for his lead knuckles. Scratching, scratching. Nothing there. Then his fingers touched a familiar edge.

There they were!

Maybe?

"Sir," he said again, "Could we have a ball, sir?"

Then he heard a hiss. He looked to the side and saw Derek standing at the edge of the shack. He motioned to Lucky.

"Over here," he said.

"Get out!" Lucky growled. He didn’t have time for this little twerp.

Derek looked hurt. "Don’t worry," he said. "I’ve got the others. It’ll be alright."

Lucky glared at him. Derek withered under the glare, then said,

"I was just pretending. You know I’m really your friend."

"What others?" Lucky demanded.

"Jacques and Paul," Derek said.

They were among the foreigner boarders attending the school. They were both big, friendly lads who stood for no nonsense. Lucky took a quick look. His stalkers had been joined by four or five more malcontents.

Derek noticed. He motioned for Lucky to follow. "Over here," he said. "We’ll catch ‘em by surprise."

Lucky look at him very hard. Derek’s eyes wavered. Then they dropped and he blushed. "I want to get even," he said. "Help me, okay."

Lucky hesitated, then nodded. Already, his mind was whirling with plans for a counter attack. With Jacques and Paul backing him up, he could really lay into these guys. Show them what an American was all about. As he walked toward Derek, his right fist finally curling over elusive fish weight. He let the satchel fall away, getting a good grip on what Sandros had named rightly named his "equalizer." In his left hand, he had the weighted antennae whip. All he had to do was flick his wrist to shoot it out to its most formidable length.

But when he stepped around the equipment shed he found the towering, pimply-faced Simms staring down at him with gloating eyes.

"’Lo, Yank," he rasped.

Simms was flanked by several of his toadies, who were closing in. Lucky reacted quickly, but even as he started to flick his steel whip out he heard footsteps rushing in behind him. At the same time he raised his right fist – clenched around the "equalizer." There were shouts as his ambushers pinned his arms to his side. Lucky struggled, but there were too many of them. Now those shouts turned gleeful as hands ripped his weapons from his fists. Simms leaned down at him, smiling a rat-toothed smile. He grabbed Lucky by the tie and pushed the knot up until it was choking him.

"My mates say you don’t like us, Yank," he said.

Lucky heard Derek stutter, "He ca-ca-called us Ro-Ro-Romans."

Simms pushed the knot tighter. Lucky could barely breathe. "Greasy Italians, is it?" he said. "That’s what you’re sayin’ about us?"

The bizarre statement combined with the lack of oxygen to make Lucky’s head reel. What in the world was Simms accusing him of?

"N-N-No," Derek broke in, trying to explain. "He meant the c-c-corn r-riots…" he gasped for breath, then got it out, "It’s our fault!"

Simms’ eyes lit up. He put his face down until his nose almost touched Lucky’s. "Our fault, is it?" he said. "Our fault!"

This was getting stranger and stranger. Lucky knew Simms didn’t have the faintest idea what the row was over. Nor, did Simms care. Honor of some sort had obviously been impugned and must be redeemed at all cost.

"L-l-look what he had!" cried Derek, holding up the fish weight equalizer. "He was going to hit us with it."

Derek laughed. "This Yank’s got more tricks than a bloody Chinaman," he said.

He released one hand – keeping a tight grip on the tie with the other. Lucky would have tried to make a break for it then, but other hands were holding him.

"Give it here, old son," Simms said to Derek.

Lucky’s betrayer beamed and handed over the equalizer.

Simms hefted it in his hand, smiling at Lucky. "Gonna hit us with this, were you?" he said.

It wasn’t a question, so Lucky didn’t reply.

Without warning, Simms drove his weighted fist into Lucky’s belly. But the boy was expecting it and although it hurt like the devil, he didn’t lose his wind. Even so, his stomach felt on fire.

"How do you like that, Yank?" Simms said, drawing his fist back for another blow.

Lucky did the only thing he could think of. He jerked up his knees and let himself fall backward. Simms, still clutching his tie, was caught by surprise and fell with him. His chin hit Lucky’s forehead and Lucky heard Simms help as he bit into his own tongue. Lucky thought his neck had been snapped and the tie was so tight he could hardly get his breath. He hurled himself over, landing on top of Simms, his back crushing the larger boy’s abdomen.

He reached up and tore the boy’s fingers away. His enemies were shouting and clawing at him, but Lucky rolled to his feet, kicking back – his heel connecting with someone. Then he bent his head down and rushed them, breaking free.

There was a whole empty soccer field in front of him and he ran like his life depended on it, which it very well might have. He ran hard and fast and he could hear boys shouting behind him. And then he ran straight into the goal post – hitting his head and bouncing back to collapse on the ground, stunned and barely conscious. He heard voices and clenched his fists, forcing his eyes open and dragging desperately for air. He looked up at a sea of blurry faces. One came close and his nerves jumped like a threatened animal’s and he lashed out at it.

A strong hand captured his. Lucky struggled. I won’t stop, he thought. I won’t!

"Here, now, cease and desist!" came a familiar adult voice. It was the teacher with two names - Mr. Quinton-Thomas.

"Sorry, sir," Lucky gasped.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position. He had no choice but to hold his sides and gasp painfully for breath. Something felt wrong inside of him. But he pushed that thought aside and stifling a groan, he climbed to his feet. He saw Simms and his toadies, including that little bastard, Derek, hanging back in a small group a few yards away.

"I note the lack of a soccer ball in the vicinity, Cole," Quinton-Thomas said. "So how is it that you had your fateful encounter with the goal post?"

Woozy as he was, Lucky realized that the teacher didn’t ask him if he was okay, or check on his condition. Strange school.

"Clumsiness, sir," Lucky said.

Then a wave of sickness overcame him. He fell to his knees, doubled over and retching.

Quinton-Thomas made a noise showing his disgust. "Oh, someone get him to the nurse’s office, please," he said. "I can’t abide the smell of cafeteria peas as is it is, without first passing them through the gut of a Yank."

The boys laughed. A young teacher’s assistant helped Lucky to his feet and escorted him to the nurse’s office. The sickness didn’t stop. The school nurse attributed it to the run in with the goal post. But when Lucky kept throwing up, she called his house and got his mother on the phone. A taxi was sent for and Lucky went home.

He never set foot on the grounds of the Dr. Arnold Thomas Academy For Boys again.

NEXT: WHEN DEATH NEVER SLEEPS

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THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:

A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan

After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.

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MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES

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TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE

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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book.

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