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The troops, who had been fighting day & night for two weeks straight, tumbled into ditches as the Nazi strafers made at them, then scrambled up to pot the advancing tanks or bayonet their way out of traps. As the forces fell back toward wedge-shaped Attica, it became evident that the bulk of them could get clear only if the rearguard made a magnificent stand. Sir Thomas decided that historic Thermopylae pass was the spot. He ordered the chosen few: "Every man must now do his job with strong determination. Select positions with care, and so prevent the enemy from coming down on you from above or infiltrating along mountain tracks. . . . I call on every Anzac to grit his teeth, and be worthy of his father."
In 480 B.C., when the 1,000 Spartans and Thespians of King Leonidas held out for hours until every one had been butchered by the 10,000 Persians, the pass of Thermopylae, which lies not between two mountains but between a mountain ridge and the sea, was only 42 feet wide. Since then the delta of the River Spercheus has built out almost three miles of marshy land, widening the pass. Also, the main road to Athens no longer runs between the bluff and the sea. Instead, just before it reaches the old pass, it climbs steeply over the mountain ridge, following a small valley. But Thermopylae is still a fine defensive position.
Last week, for three days, a small force of Australians, New Zealanders and Britons dug themselves in on the heights above the pass's little mill and aqueduct, near its hot springs, and poured down fire so that the Germans could neither scale the heights nor move along the narrow strip of shore. One of the earliest fifth columnists, a Greek from Malis, betrayed the Spartans by leading the Persians through a mountain path around to the rear of the Greeks. Last week the Germans finally took Thermopylae by the same operation, but, like the pass, on a much wider scale, a swing far to the west of Mt. Parnassus.
Thermopylae was the key to the week's action. By the admission of the Germans' modest and honest communiques, British-Anzac resistance at the pass held up the Nazi advance—which did not succeed in taking the heights by assault—for many hours: hours enough to turn the evacuation of the main British force from a slaughter to an almost orderly retirement.
Blarney's Mob. Like most Australians, Tom Blarney is a weatherbeaten, hearty fellow. He was born on a farm at Wagga Wagga, N.S.W. He did the outdoor things —hunting, shooting, riding, hockey, soccer, rugby, lacrosse—until he was all gristle. He joined the Army, fought Turkey, emerged as Chief of Staff of the A.I.F., then retired to versatile successes, as a police commissioner, businessman, radio commentator. One month before World War II broke out he bought a little seaside home, got married and prepared to go off into the wilds for a honeymoon. He never went. He was called up to command the entire Australian Infantry Force.
Australians call the second A.I.F. "Blarney's Mob." Tom Blarney says he doesn't mind; he's "proud to be associated with such a mob." As the mob marched through the streets of Athens last week, the Athenians stood by cheering and throwing flowers and weeping. The General and his men could have asked no deeper tribute.