In the summer of 1925 Markos was fed up with military service and desperate for a discharge but with 2 years’ worth of detentions stacked up for absences without leave there was no end in sight. A music-loving adjutant was on his side and cooked up a plan: ‘ “Some day soon the garrison commander’s fiancée is going to come here. Since you’re such a cool customer, barge your way into his office. When he sees you he’ll be struck dumb.”
I did as he said. I burst in and saluted in faultless military style. As soon as he saw me the garrison commander began to twitch. His fiancée turned to him and said:
“Christos, who is this?”
“You see this man? He's the worst soldier in the whole outfit.”
“Is he a thief?”
“No.”
“What is he Christos?”
“A regular absconder - a disgrace to my regiment.”
Then I got started on my rules and regulations:
“The honourable garrison commander finds fault with me for being absent but I’ve read my soldier’s handbook. I happen to be married. When a regiment is stationed in the same area as a soldier’s home, the soldier has leave to go sleep at his own place - and I’ve got two kids.’ (I didn’t even have cats!)
Says the garrison commander: “Oh yeah! so you’re the kind of guy we can allow to go home and you’ll be back next day? Like hell you are! You’ll go and start a rumpus in the slaughterhouse! Didn’t I tell you to sit tight and behave yourself if you wanted your discharge? I’ve reached the point where I’ve a good mind to pack you off to the ‘Grannies’ (Yiayiadhes) in Samos!”’…(Autobiography of Markos Vamvakaris p. 85).

This was clearly a dire threat and a great puzzle to the translator. Could grannies be that bad? These ‘Grannies’ in Samos, who came with a capital letter and the masculine article, must be a formidable bunch of viragos - but to a translator whose ‘cultural baggage’ included the Giles Granny cartoons  it was, ever so briefly, imaginable.

 Translator's mental picture of a formidable Samian Granny ....

With a little more digging however, the extraordinary story of the Yiayas brothers’revolt of June 1925 came to light. It should be explained that Yiayias, their family surname, if you put it in the plural, means Grannies - an incongrous name for a bunch of dashing rebels whose exploits became the subject of two wonderful songs by Kostas Roukounas as well as a Karaghiozi play. The earlier Roukounas song refers to a savage battle that took place in 1917 between the Yiayias brothers (Royalists) and Venizelist troops in the village of Kosmadhaioi. It was the time of the national schism and Samos had declared for the Venizelist government in Thessaloniki. The Venizelists burst into the village, killed Georgios one of the brothers and burnt their mother and sister alive. The other brothers escaped. Iannis Yiayias who later wrote his memoirs went into exile with his brothers; he was imprisoned for a while in Syros but later had an amnesty.
The revolt in June 1925, celebrated in the second Rounas song, started as a raiding party in three stolen cars. The brothers returned from exile and arrived by boat at Marathokambos. They drove to Karlobasi where they took the Police station by surprise, released and armed the prisoners. Then they robbed a bank and captured all the key positions on the island, without a fight since everyone was fast asleep. Astonished by their own success they declared Samian Independence the next day, lowered the Greek flag, raised the flag of the Entente (French, Italian and British), and demanded the resignation of the Greek government in Athens. Kondylis, then minister for the interior, (later, one of the prime-ministers Markos mentions in his famous song: ‘Markos O Prothypourgos’) immediately sent 1000 troops with a naval flotilla to retake the island. Since the native Samians weren’t too keen on revolution this was easily done. The rebel brothers fled to Asia Minor with sack loads of money. The escapade comes across more heroical and less farcical in the songs, naturally. 

​A song for Mother's Day - about the boys just old enough to be shot but still young enough to think about their mothers. Markos wrote it after the Germans left in October 1944. This is a recording by Markos' son Stelios who, like Dalaras, leaves out the last two verses which Markos gave in the Autobiography: 'One that went down very well was a zebekiko called Chaidhari. Chaidhari was a prison camp where they assembled the prisoners. They took them there from Merlin Street and that’s where they killed them. We sang this a lot but I didn’t record it' (p.188)