A Distasteful Task

I first saw Cyprus in the summer of 1948 when, as a junior subaltern of the Welch Regiment, I was sent to the Middle East to join the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. My first impression of this 'jewel' of the Mediterranean was that hell could not be far away when day time temperatures soared into the top '90's I remember trying to find some relief from the oppressive heat by spending a few hours on a tethered raft a hundred yards from the shore - only to be burnt so badly that the medical officer read me the rules about self inflicted wounds! Captain Jack Walliker, another officer of my regiment serving with the Borderers, took pity on me and invited me to join a camping party in the Karpas Peninsula (the ‘Panhandle’) he was organizing for the following week end. I eagerly accepted.
There were two jeeps for eight of us and we loaded four two-men bivouacs and enough 'compo' rations to last three days. Cool breezes took over from the hot, dusty air of the plains as we headed north into the mountains where brilliant white villages with groves of olive and orange trees nestled among rocky outcrops. When we reached the half way point to the ruins of Kantara Castle, which had been one of the bastions of the Knights of St. John in the twelfth century, we stopped in a village for refreshments.
In the centre of the village, was a tree that provided shade for the men folk drinking coffee and playing cards. We were welcomed with smiles and friendly invitations to sit among them. Within seconds, the proprietor of a nearby coffee shop asked us what we would like to eat and drink. He spoke good English and Jack ordered some coffee and other things with Greek names. That day I made my first acquaintance with keftethis and halvah. Deep fried wafer thin pasta envelopes of spiced meat and tender bean sprouts were complemented with the flavour of honey and roasted almonds. Tiny cups full to the brim with a scalding black liquid, which almost supported the spoon in the vertical position, anointed my palate with the taste of real coffee such as I had never tasted before. Bowls of other delectable nibbles and small glasses of a deep red liqueur took over when the coffee cups were cleared away. A considerable amount of collective discipline had to be exerted to ask for the bill and bid our friendly hosts farewell. The coffee shop proprietor, his family and other local inhabitants stood and waved to us as we climbed into our vehicles and headed further into the mountains.
The rest of the story about our camping week end is of no consequence. It was very pleasant but has no relevance to what I am about to relate.

Early in 1949, the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers left Cyprus and sailed south through the Suez Canal to Port Sudan, on the Red Sea coast, then overland to Khartoum, which was to be our new station.
Nine years passed before I arrived in Cyprus again, this time with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment to take part in a campaign to subdue Greek Cypriot terrorists (or 'Freedom Fighters') whose aim was to end British rule and establish union with Greece.
Our first operational area was in the north west part of the island with battalion headquarters at Xeros. We stayed there for six months before moving to Dhavlos on the north east coast of the Karpas peninsula. This was familiar territory to me and the sight of Kantara Castle brought back memories of that camping trip.
One day, the officers were called to an 'O' (orders) Group where the Commanding Officer outlined the details of 'Operation Woodpecker'. The plan was to arrest thousands of passive supporters of the Greek Cypriot EOKA terrorist organisation throughout the island and put them in a place where they could not make mischief. We were given envelopes which contained details of our responsibilities.
When I returned to my tent and opened my envelope, I found I had to meet some Greek policemen at a certain grid reference on the other side of the mountain at 20.00hrs the following evening. It seemed they would escort me to a village and then show me the house of the person who had to be arrested.
I set out the following evening with my escort in two Land Rovers and we duly met the two policemen. I had no idea where I was until we drove into a village which seemed familiar. A carob tree with large black pods hanging from its branches stood in the centre of the square and Greek Cypriot villagers sat at tables drinking coffee and playing cards. To them a visit from the security forces was a common occurrence and when they saw who it was, they looked at us with sullen expressions. My eyes took in the scene and my mind wound back to August 1948 when these same villagers had been so friendly and hospitable.
I wondered which one, if any, I would have to arrest and glanced towards one of the policemen for a clue. He, however, motioned me to follow him and our posse filed out from the village square and down a narrow alley bordered by two high walls. We turned left at the end and saw in front of us an alcove blocked by a wooden gate. From the shadows of the alcove I could see a family of Greek Cypriots sitting in their arbour of vines having their evening meal.
The father of the family sat at the head of the table facing me, his wife sat at the other end and their children, numbering five or six, sat on either side of the table.
One of the policemen whispered into my ear: "That is Constantis Theakus (not his real name), the man we must arrest. He owns the village coffee shop." It seemed a cruel irony that fate decreed I should arrest a man who had been so friendly when I had met him ten years before. Even though it was a hot and sultry night, a chill swept over me. The accusation about him being an EOKA supporter did not seem to matter as I opened the gate and entered the courtyard.
Constantis looked up and rose to his feet as I approached. One of the policemen told him he was being arrested and would be given a few minutes to pack some clothes. Both policemen accompanied him inside the house leaving my escort and me standing near the remainder of the family. After what seemed an age, Constantis reappeared carrying a small suitcase. He put it on the ground and then embraced his children one by one. He then turned to his wife, dried her tears and held her close. After a few seconds, he said: "I'm ready to go." One of the policemen put handcuffs on him and we filed back the way we had come.
An hour later, we were back in Dhavlos where tents had been erected within a barbed wire stockade. Police 'Special Branch' then took over and the following day Constantis and others who had been brought in the night before were moved away in police vehicles.
I was never in any doubt that the only inconvenience Constantis suffered was temporary deprivation of liberty and that after a month or two, he would be back in his village serving coffee and playing cards with his friends. I sometimes wonder though what would have happened to him if he had been arrested by one of the many totalitarian regimes we have seen in that part of the world in recent years.