[h1]Greece[/h1]

[h2]Somewhere in Northern Epirus, June 11, 1960[/h2]
“Don't tell me you're afraid of fighting “savages”, as you call them”

Yiannis rarely looked this pale. Thaimes was his usual apathetic self. Maybe his friend had something he was worried about losing, but Thaimes was waiting for this day straight from enlistment. There was nothing left for him back in Sparta, and it was obvious to everyone that another war was right around the corner. Whether Albania or Turkey, there was no way that he could lose in the military. Either he came back a hero, and was able to make something of himself, or he would up in a ditch with a bullet wound in the head, free from whatever was waiting for him back in Greece. Yiannis never actually expected to see action. He was happy to be dealing with trouble makers in Epirus, but actually marching into a foreign country. That was crazy.

“Don't be such a pussy, we're just back up anyways,”

Before he could retort, the commander of the army had spoken up.

“Listen closely men. Today we will move on from simply patrolling cities, to playing our part in the spread of the revolution. The brave men of the Albanian Socialists have already begun the push against tyranny started by the so-called King Zog, continued in the inept rule of his unfit son, Skander. We owe it to our brothers to stand side by side with them and spill our blood to help them in the liberation of their people from the clutches of monarchy. So, we shall begin the glorious march into Albania, and in time they will be free to make their own destiny.”

Yiannis looked as if he was about to pass out, with Thaimes just boredly looking ahead as he internally mocked the commander. He knew this was all just an attempt to get control over a previously hostile nation, bring them into their fold and eliminate enemies. No one gave a damn about the Hoxhaists before now, now that it was convenient for them. Zog dies and his retarded son takes the throne? Perfect timing to back and hopeless mess like the Hoxhaists. 

But that was none of his concern. So long as he could personally benefit from this, it was all that mattered. 

“Don't be so afraid, Yiannis. We're gonna kill Shiptars, like you  always wanted to do.” 

Yiannis swallowed hard and winced as if in pain before responding, 

“Yeah...Yeah...It's going to be fine, we can do this. What's the worse they can do anyways?”

[h2]About 100km southeast of Mount Çika, Albania, June 23, 1960[/h2]
June was an ideal time to be returning home.

Hikmet Toskaj had spent the last 20 years of his life squatting in Athens along with many of the Hoxhaists. Who had once been an idealistic 16 year old boy who left home to fight for socialism alongside his brothers in Hoxha's graces, he was now a bitter man in his 30s, with nothing left to lose. Albania was almost as rough as the camp, the mountains, angry and jagged, almost mocked his return. Many of the men had come to Greece as children or young men, and now returned in the middle of their lives, angry and hateful. Though they were not alone. 
Seated beside him was 16 year old Evangelos Tzanavaras, a boy from a small village outside of Athens. Evangelos, or Evangjel in proper Albanian, was one of the few Arvanites left in Attica. Furiously proud of his heritage, he was an active campaigner for the recognition of the Hoxhaist movement in Athens, and for Arvanite support of the group, and had run away from home to join the Hoxhaists when he found out they were going to be returning to Albania to bring socialism to the Kingdom. 

The pair found themselves pinned down by gunmen hiding in the mountains. Greeks would be arriving soon to provide back up, but for now, the Hoxhaists were left to fend for themselves. Between shots, Hikmet would return to cover to allow Evangjel to fire into the mountains, and so the pair alternated. 

Night was falling and it was becoming clear that the Greeks would not be reaching this destination until later. 

“Damn them, how can they just leave us here?” Evangjel shouted as he took another shot into the mountains, aiming at a nearby Monarchist sniper. 

“Don't know what to tell ya, kid” Hikmet replied, quickly changing out the magazine on his rife, a French rifle the Greeks had supplied to the Hoxhaists before they marched into the mountains. “We can't be relying on them too much, we gotta take care of ourselves.” 

Evangjel ducked down as Hikmet stood up to take a shot, firing into the nearby hill, chuckling a bit as he saw the limp body of a gunman fall from the cliff onto the ground below, dust thrown up as he hit the ground.

“Got one”, which was Evangjels queue to take over shooting. 

Hikmet had become something like a father figure to Evangjel, for as long as they had journed together, it seemed like the two had something of a bond that could not be broken. 

Perhaps that’s why the next few seconds would be forever burned into Evangjel's brain for the remainder of his life. 

As the boy ducked under the stone wall of the house they were taking cover in, Hikmet stood up, only to fall right back. Evangjel's attention was caught only to see his fellow soldier laying on his back on the dirt floor of the little stone house, blood gushing out of his throat in pulsating bursts.

If he screamed, it wouldn't be obvious to himself. What he could remember was throwing himself onto the older man, forcing his hands over the other's throat and pressing down, futilely hoping to stop the bleeding as red liquid simply poured through his fingers with every beat of the dying man's heart. The shock was overwhelming, so much so he had not even noticed the arrival of reinforcements outside, as Greek artillerymen began firing off into the distance, raining death upon the marksmen in the mountain pass. 

In the coming moments when Greek and Hoxhaists began to advance into the pass, driving the Monarchist forces away, Evangjel just lay in the house, hands sticky with cold, clotting blood, as Hikmet lay dying.

Voices could be heard outside of the door, 

“The fuck happened in here?”

Evangjel's head darted to the left, seeing two Greek soldiers standing in the doorway of the house, the soft lights they held giving an orangish glow to their face as the setting sun turned from orange int its own right to a cool blue. 

“He's dead, he died waiting for you to come and help us!” the child shouted, furious at these Greeks, how they seemed so uninterested in the condition of his friend.

“It's war, get over it, Kid” one of the Greeks spoke up. “Just be glad we came at all, so you didn't end up like him too.”

With that, the Greek left, though the other lingered a bit, seemingly horrified as he watched the younger soldier sob softly over his fallen comrade.

“Yiannis, what the fuck is holding you, hurry up,”

“Ye-yeah,” Yiannis said, as he slipped out of the building unnoticed