The clear sky above Crete would normally have been a good sign, the hot sun and blue sky warming every soul and smile on the island. On a day like this, the inhabitants of Crete would have gone fishing, work in the fields and all went to church later, before coming home and all enjoying a pleasant meal, surely with a few pints of Greek beer to cool themselves. This could have been a day like that. But from what heard in the driver's seat of the first Breda of the small convoy headed for Heraklion, this was nothing close to it. And one would see that the trucks were all shit. 

As the first Breda truck parked beside Second Lieutenant Myles Hedger's truck, a very, very angry Greek man stepped out of the truck and continued on about his ranting, in Greek of course. "...and if I ever again had to choose between this piece of crap Italian shit and a Turkish mule, I would burn the mule and shoot the truck! I tell you, I have never driven a worse car in all my life, and I've done this close to 30 years, and never has a truck broken down so many times..." The ageing Greek man kept on, letting his anger out on the truck by kicking the front tire, the hood, and the front of it. Alexios cared little if they had to use them again, if so, he'd prefer to walk with his own two feet, at least they worked. 

Alexios eventually calmed down again, at least enough not to shoot the truck, and assembled with the rest of the platoon under command of Second Lieutenant Myles. He heard some of the words the other British officer said rather angry, English wasn't his best language but he had picked up bits and bobs through his life. What he understood was "...third rate platoon...", figuring that they were said platoon, and to some extent it was true. They were men in all ages and occupations, all with varying amounts of experience in war, but they were the last they had. 

Suddenly Second Lieutenant Myles called out for Alexios, and he jogged up to him to get his orders. "Yes, Sir?" He was told to take a section and defend the northern defences of their flank. Alexios nodded and turned around to take command of one section, containing both British and Greek troops. "Men, follow me." He shouted at them, first in Greek, and then in English as he realized the British knew very few words of Greek, save from the casual gesture of "Hello., Good morning., What's the time? and of course, One beer.". 

As they made their way to their positions, Alexios turned around and grabbed the shoulder of a Greek soldier. "Dmitri Costas? Do you know how to operate one of those Anti-Aircraft guns? I have never used any such thing, and can't show the others how to." He quietly said to Dmitri, lifting up the red fez he wore to scratch his balding head. Back in the old wars he had killed Turks and Bulgarians alike, but this would be the first time he'd kill a German. To him they must have been just like Austrians, only worse. And he hated Austrians.