At three in the morning, Greece was still asleep. In Athens, most homes were silent, and only a handful of people walked the streets. But along the country’s borders, the night was already coming to an end.
In the space of just a few hours, an entire nation would move from uncertainty to mobilisation, from everyday life to fear, and from fear to the realisation that war had become a reality.
Shortly after 3am on 28 October 1940, Italian Ambassador Emanuele Grazzi arrived at the residence of Greek Prime Minister Ioannis Metaxas in Kifissia.
The ultimatum was clear: Italy demanded free passage for its troops and permission to occupy strategic locations throughout Greece.
Metaxas’ response would become part of history. But at that moment, there was no history yet. There was only a night, and a decision.
A few hours later, Italian forces launched their attack along the Greek-Albanian border.
Greece was at war.
5.30am: The news had not yet reached everyone
For those waking that morning, nothing was certain.
They did not know how the war would unfold. They did not know whether it would last days or months. They did not know whether Athens would be bombed, whether they would be sent to the front, or whether they would ever see their loved ones again.
Above all, they did not know they were living through the first day of an event that would later carry enormous symbolic significance.
The reality of 28 October had not yet acquired a name. It had only acquired an enemy.
The streets begin to change
As dawn broke, the news began to spread.
Through newspapers, radio broadcasts, public announcements and word of mouth, information travelled from home to home.
Athens began to change.
People gathered in the streets. Some headed towards mobilisation centres. Others searched for news of relatives and friends.
Families began to realise that the word “mobilisation” was not simply an abstract government order.
It meant someone they loved would be leaving.
For thousands of men, the day brought very practical demands: report to the designated location, put on a uniform, collect equipment, say goodbye to family.
And leave.
The moment everyday life continued
Perhaps one of the less dramatic, yet most revealing aspects of that day was that war did not bring life in Greece to an immediate halt.
Some people still went to work. Shops opened. Others waited anxiously for news.
Children watched adults speaking in hushed voices. Women prepared belongings for husbands or sons preparing to depart. Some rushed to purchase essential supplies.
And others simply waited.
Because the greatest uncertainty of the first day of war is precisely that: nobody yet knows what will happen.
The sound of sirens
Then came a new sound.
The sirens.
For most people, they were more than a warning. They marked the moment when war ceased to be something happening somewhere along the border.
Danger could now come from the sky.
Homes had to be darkened. Windows covered. People needed to know where to seek shelter.
Within hours, Athens had to learn a new vocabulary: blackout, shelter, air raid warning, anti-aircraft defence.
Everyday life was acquiring new rules.
At the front, the day was different
While people in Athens were still trying to understand what was happening, soldiers stationed along the border had no luxury of waiting.
There was no longer any question of whether war had begun.
It had.
Cold, mountains, mud, troop movements, orders and gunfire defined their reality.
Those stationed there did not know how history would eventually tell their story.
They simply had to endure the next hour.
Between the front and home, there was a letter
Perhaps the most human aspect of those first days was the distance separating people.
One person left. Another stayed behind.
And between them was the postal service.
As the war continued, letters from the front became one of the most important ways for soldiers and their families to remain connected.
These letters did not speak only of battles. They carried anxiety, family news, everyday concerns and the need to reassure one another.
Even military authorities recognised the importance of correspondence in maintaining soldiers’ morale.
The history of the war was therefore not written only in military communiqués.
It was also written on pieces of paper.
“I’m well.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Take care.”
“Give Mother a kiss.”
Sometimes, these were all the words someone hundreds of kilometres away could offer.
The evening of 28 October
By nightfall, Greece was no longer the same country that had awakened that morning.
The map had not yet changed. Battles had not been decided. The outcome remained unknown.
But something far more immediate had changed: people’s sense of time.
From that day forward, time would be measured differently.
In days of war. In letters arriving from the front. In news of battles. In absences. In the names of those who returned.
And those who never did.
The 28th of October would later become a national symbol.
For those who lived through it, however, it was first and foremost a day filled with uncertainty.
A day when nobody yet knew it would become an anniversary.
They knew only that war had begun.
And that the following morning, they would have to wake up and carry on.
Editor’s note: This article has been translated and lightly adapted from the original Greek-language feature by Nikos Syriodis for The Greek Herald’s English-language readership. The author’s narrative style, historical perspective and original structure have been preserved.
