Steadfast

By Nikos Kopsidas

In March 1970, Odysseas Andronikos, a chief petty officer in the Royal Hellenic Navy, is prepared to reap the benefits of his intense studies. After learning English and details of the American culture, he receives his orders to report to the Navy Seabee base in Rhode Island. Odysseas is more than ready to escape the Greek military dictatorship and begin a new adventure in America.

After Odysseas arrives in Rhode Island, he slowly adjusts to the ways of American life. Soon he meets Melina Spencera beautiful woman trapped in an abusive marriage to a United States naval officer. Desperate to escape her situation and find a better life for her children, Melina begins a torrid, forbidden affair with Odysseas. Despite obvious political and immigration barriers, Melina and Odysseas fall in lovebut it is not long before Odysseas is sent back to Greece. Desperate and alone in his country, Odysseas is willing to risk everything to be with the only woman he has ever loved.

Based on true events, Steadfast weaves suspense with governmental power, corruption, torture, and even deathand proves that love is the most powerful emotion of all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450281843

Nikos Kopsidas

NICOLAS KOPSIDAS was born in Greece and served in the Greek navy in the 1960s and 1970s. His heritage and his firsthand experiences under the boot of the dictators are vividly reflected in his writing. A passionate reader of human drama novels, Nicolas currently lives in Coos Bay, Oregon.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Prologue

It was mid-morning, foggy and nippy for late October, when I found him standing all by himself at the water’s edge on the docks of Charleston, Oregon. Tall and old, anyone could see the graceful surrender to the years on his posture. His pipe was secured between his few teeth, and his hands, large and thick, crossed on the top of a cane made out of a tree branch. He wore his old heavy navy wool coat with the gold crowned anchor buttons on it and an old weather-beaten, discolored Greek fisherman’s hat with an oxidized small bronze crown in front, all reminiscent of his past, back home, in the Royal Greek Navy days of the fifties, sixties, and early seventies.

The skin at his temples was wrinkled and tanned, but I couldn’t see much of his face under his thick white beard and the smoke blown from his pipe. His whole guise was a composite of characters, somewhere between Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea and Rockwell’s Outbound.

He was absorbed with the maneuvers of a large fishing boat, just pulled in, loaded with a hefty catch of tuna and ready to tie to the dock by the fish processing plant. I could easily guess what was going through his mind: his home on the island of Corfu, people he left behind, folks he possibly wouldn’t talk about, the sea, his heritage, or even perhaps being on that boat, trying his tired sea legs for old time’s sake.

I have known him, Odysseas Andronikos, all my life, or at least since I can remember. We grew up together on that peaceful island. Inseparable, like brothers, we played together, went to the same school, and even caught our first fish in Garitsa Bay. I remember he caught a small eel and I managed to match him up by catching a sizable perch. We joined the Greek Navy as young cadets, slept in the same barracks at boot camp, and spent our navy years together. Then, as usually happens, life got in the way and our roads separated. Now, after nearly forty years in the United States, and after talking to some common friends, I found myself on the Southern Oregon Coast, where I was told I could find him.

I approached quietly, not wanting to disturb him from his thoughts. He had always been more of a thinker than a talker and always treasured his quiet times, happy being by himself. From the side of his eye he saw me though, and slowly turned his head to my direction, but he didn’t recognize me; how could he after all these years? He probably thought I was one of the local fishermen going to board my boat—one of the plenty moored peacefully in their slips.

I broke the serenity of the moment and greeted him with a familiar Greek expression when two old friends meet: Ti kanis paliophyle? How are you, old friend?

He looked at me in disbelief, probably thinking I was some kind of nut. Then he turned away to submerge himself back into his own quiet world, observing the boats. I decided to become more assertive with my intrusion. I talked softly, almost in a whisper, and called his name: Odyssea. This time he turned his whole body and faced me squarely.

Who wants to know? His tone abrupt, crabby. Perhaps he didn’t want to loosen his teeth and drop his pipe.

Nikos … your old friend and shipmate from Corfu. I extended both arms out to him in a friendly gesture. "By the grace of Panagia. Holy Mother, I found you."

The look on his face was one of happiness and surprise and deep disbelief. Priceless. He beamed. He removed the pipe from his teeth and gave me a wide smile—wide enough that I could see his missing teeth—and with slow, hesitant steps came close. We embraced; I don’t remember for how long. A minute? A lifetime? Oh, who knows?

What brings you here? His voice was broken with emotion as he managed to compose the words through, what it seemed to be, a lump in his throat. How did you find me here? He used his index finger to remove a drop of a tear from the side of his eye.

I wanted to find you, old friend, or should I call you brother? I said, mine just as trebling. For the last thirty-five years I’ve tried. Many people back home have been asking about you: your brother, your sister, your cousins—all of them miss you.

Pfff, he said with a dismissive gesture. Too many years, my brother, too many years. What, thirty-five? Forty? Lost count, you know. Things change … people change. I know, sometimes I miss them too, but I am happy here. His mind unbent with determination, his heart full of emotional pain.

How about our little island. Corfu. Our home? I dared asked.

He grabbed my wrist, firm and yet as gentle, his dark brown eyes afire. This is my home now, Nicola. After what they did to my mother—to me … to us. He took a deep breath. His fiery eyes were wet with emotion. They killed her. The bastards killed her, Nicola. I must keep my promise to her, as she made me do before she died: ‘Go,’ she said to me. ‘Throw a black rock behind you. Never to come back.’ This is my home, old friend. I found peace here. I belong here.

I believed him and admired his convictions. Timidly, I tried to reason with him. How about the old saying: ‘Forgive and forget’?

I immediately knew I had struck a nerve. His voice got lower, deep, as if it came from the depths of his being. A man forgives because it is the Christian thing to do. Forget? Oh, no my friend. To forget you must have a brain transplant, and I haven’t.

He was very offended. I felt the immense need to change the subject. After all, I was on a mission—to find the facts about his defection. Anywhere we can go sit down, take the load off the old legs and talk? Catch up on life, maybe?

Mmmm. This seemed to calm him down. He pulled an old pocket watch from his trousers and pressed the lid open. Well, it is getting near lunchtime. With his arthritis-damaged finger he pointed at the town. There is a little nice and quiet place over there: Seagull’s Nest it is called, but don’t ask me why. He let a little chuckle. Never saw a damn seagull nesting in it, but the seafood is fresh and the best, right off the boat, and the beer is local and cold.

I was pleased to see him in good spirits. He had kept his sense of humor after all these years. "My treat, paliophyle." I patted him on the shoulder as we walked away.

Chapter 1

Los Angeles, California, April 8, 1976

The diesel fumes of the US Immigration and Naturalization Service bus were contributing to pollution over downtown Los Angeles on that pleasant April night outside the Federal Building.

Bring the Greek sailor first, shouted the Border Patrol officer, an overweight, cocky little man who was also the bus driver. We want to make sure we have him. Another of his fellow officers, who stood inside the secure door of the detention area and obviously detested taking orders from another officer of the same rank, acknowledged the instruction with a tired nod. Okay.

After his handcuffs were removed, Odysseas was quickly searched by the armed Border Patrol officer and quickly pushed up the stairs into the bus.

Odysseas, who had deserted the Greek Navy and defected in San Diego two and a half years earlier, was about to face his fate.

Followed by thirty-five other detainees, men from just about every country of the world, he was guided inside the bus. The windows of the vehicle were barred and there was an iron fence with a locked gate at the front of the aisle just behind the driver’s seat. Their destination was the Immigration Detention Camp in El Centro, California.

Odysseas’s hands trembled and his knees felt weak. Beset by fear and terrified of the veiled uncertainty facing him, he timidly walked down the aisle and took a window seat at the very rear of the bus. For him, the end and defeat appeared to be imminent; he had been caught. The struggle between fear and courage had just begun. Fear of the powerful few who had the authority to impose and make life and death decisions. Courage to survive, which had become an obsession against uncompromising facts and the fervent determination to win.

The short, fat officer who drove the bus labored up the steps of the vehicle and stood at the front of the aisle to catch his breath. Like a bandy-legged strutting rooster, he stood with legs apart, arms hanging down, right hand touching his sidearm. Chin jutting out, he carefully counted the detainees, who sank fearfully in their seats. He tried to puff his chest out, but his considerable beer belly would not allow it; instead, he fetched his falling pants up to where there once was a waistline, grabbed a key, and locked the security gate located at the front of the aisle. He squeezed himself in the driver’s seat, shook and dragged his oversized rump, positioned himself in comfort, and glanced at the detainees once again through the rearview mirror and with a sneer, shouted, Gentlemen, enjoy the ride! It is going to be a long one. He buckled up, secured the door, and the bus slowly rolled away from the Federal Building into the chaotic mesh of Los Angeles rush-hour traffic.

Odysseas, worn out, placed his head against the barred window and closed his eyes in an attempt to escape the raw reality of his predicament. If he was sent back to Greece he would have to face the military inquisitors. In his tired mind, there was only one persistent thought. I would rather die than go back. I promised her I won’t go back. I must think of a way to die if I have to, but I will not go back.

There was numbed silence inside the bus. Dense cigarette smoke, the roar of the engine, and the heavy body odor emanating from all the passengers were the only elements anyone could encounter in this dark hour of despair.

With his energy depleted, Odysseas’s eyelids became uncontrollably heavy. The rumble and jerking of the shifting gears became routine, almost soothing, and he surrendered to a deep, troublesome sleep.

Chapter 2

The island of Corfu sits off the northwest coast of Greece in the south end of the Adriatic Sea. Odysseas Andronikos was born in this Mediterranean paradise in December 1940, in an underground bunker amid an intense air raid by the Italian Air Force. It was there, where Odysseas had developed his eternal attraction for the sea.

His grandfather and mentor, Nicolas, was a tall, slim, athletic man and a full-blooded fisherman. Nicolas was married to grandmother Adrianna, a petite, pure-hearted woman with a placid character. Both, Nicolas and Adriana had managed to acquire an unpretentious one-room fisherman’s cottage a hundred yards from the waterfront in Anemomylos, a southern suburb of Corfu Town, at the south end of picturesque Garitsa Bay.

Anemomylos is a small, quiet spot buried in eucalyptus, palm, kumquat, persimmon, and mimosa trees. When the fury of the persistent northwest wind, the Maistros, struck the island and pounded the waters of Garitsa Bay, the volcano tile–paved streets were wrapped in seaweed and the small soft-shell crabs, entangled in the seaweed, were washed up, crawling along the drenched sidewalks, creating an excitement for the local children, who, armed with empty American cheese cans—compliments of the Marshall Plan—eagerly competed for the greatest harvest. Life was uncomplicated, undemanding, and tranquil in that unhurried spot where Odysseas called home, but his childhood had not always been a gentle one.

His father Philip was a tall, thin, anorexic, vocal, and neurotic man with a long face and well groomed black hair. In 1939 Philip married Anna, a free-spirited sixteen-year-old, tall, beautiful, and elegant, with black flowing hair and almond-shaped dark brown eyes. On December six of the following year, while the island was under Italian air attack, Anna gave birth to their son Odysseas in an underground bomb shelter.

In the fall of 1940—only a few months before Odysseas’s birth— Philip, along with thousands of his brave countrymen, answered the call to duty and joined the Greek army to serve his country during World War II in the short and victorious fight against the Italians. While Philip fought the war in the ragged mountains of the mainland, Anna’s only source of support was her parents. Yaya, Grandma Adrianna, was helping her inexperienced teenage daughter to raise the newborn Odysseas, while Papou, Grandpa Nicolas, risked his own life by going out to sea in his small, oar-propelled dinghy to collect dead fish killed by the explosions of countless bombs dropped by the Italian Air Force, as they missed the land and fell into the bay.

The nationwide elation over the defeat of the inexperienced and peace-loving Italians was short lived, quickly to be replaced by lamentation and anguish caused by the abrupt, fiery German invasion and occupation. Greece had fallen to the Nazis.

Philip returned from the war to the battle-scarred island of Corfu to witness the inferno of the infamous fourteenth day of September in 1941, when the wretched town of Corfu burned for three days and three nights, an inhumane and atrocious accomplishment of Hitler’s Luftwaffe. Nothing appeared to be the same, and ruins lay everywhere. Historic buildings that had stood proudly for centuries, withstanding harsh times and surviving the fanatical hordes of every savage barbarian conqueror, were turned to piles of bricks, stones, and firewood. Death, hunger, homelessness, devastation, and pain were everywhere.

Miraculously, most of the town’s churches remained intact, with only a few sustaining minor damages. The Agios Spyridon, the church of the island’s patron saint and only hope, remained standing tall. The inspiring church of Agia Theodora, the Metropolitan, remained intact. The Agios Nicolaos, the patron of the seafarers, as well as the tenth-century original Byzantine church of Agioi Jason and Sosipatros also stood defiantly, each of them obstinately extending its tall bell tower into the heavens, perpetual monuments to the gratitude of the poor, proud, and faithful islanders.

It was 1941, and everyone on the island was experiencing the suffering, anguish, and painful humiliation of defeat. The Nazis had left a small garrison of ground force to supervise the defeated Italians, who remained on the island, shamefully abandoned by their own regime and assigned by the Germans as an occupational presence. Food was nearly nonexistent and the Germans would not share their limited supplies with their Italian comrades. In deeds of kindness, forgiveness, and mercy, the local islanders answered the heartbreaking begging of the starving Italians: poco pane [little bread] and shared whatever remnants of food could be found, scavenged from the garbage, with their defeated conquerors. Anna could not produce milk to nourish her child, and baby Odysseas had to be nourished with boiled fish and rice water strained through a cheese cloth.

Maladies such as typhus, cholera, dysentery, and malaria cursed the island. The dead were secretly buried at night in remote areas—a common occurrence so those alive could benefit from the food coupons.

In late 1941, baby Odysseas became seriously ill with dysentery. The local doctor determined that the disease was significantly advanced and the only hope of a cure was a miracle. The condition was treatable with special medication, but under the dire circumstances, when even food was unavailable, finding medicine was a far-fetched fantasy. The doctor, absurdly, suggested letting nature take its course—allow the child to die, he said, and then secretly bury him and use his food ration coupons for another child’s survival.

Oh no! Not my son! Anna cried out in defiance. There must be somebody who has that medicine to help my son. I will find the medicine and a way of getting it.

Yes, Anna, there is someone who might be able to help you, said the old doctor. The Italian-appointed Lieutenant Governor has access to such medicine for cases of severe illnesses. He controls it and has it available for the privileged few, the sick Italian soldiers, and those who can afford it on the black market. Unfortunately, to that traitorous bastard, you, your son, and the rest of us are nobodies.

Anna’s restless and creative mind was already made up. My son is going to live, she vowed. I will get that medicine.

***

There is a young woman at the door to see you, Your Honor, announced the chubby old governor’s maid.

It is too late, Daphne, the Lieutenant Governor replied, agitated. I don’t wish to be disturbed.

Lieutenant Governor Ioannis Soutsos was a fifty-eight-year-old judge appointed by the Italian governor as the assistant to the governor of the island because he knew the people and he was capable of dealing with their problems. He was a bald, plum-faced, short man with a short, round nose and thick ears. He resided comfortably in an opulent mansion, a fifteenth-century Renaissance building, once the home of one of the island’s richest families but subsequently confiscated by the conquerors to serve as the lieutenant governor’s residence and administrative office.

When Daphne announced the young woman’s arrival, the governor was sitting in his velour armchair by the fireplace in the mansion’s sumptuous library, engulfed by the intertwining odors of old leather-bound books and his pipe.

The room was elegantly decorated. On its oak floor lay a heavy Persian rug, and a seventeenth-century crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. Two of the walls were of carved mahogany, and the bookshelves were full of leather-bound law books, as well as poetry and literature. The oversized fireplace occupied most of another wall, with an old gun rack on one side and a grand piano placed at an angle on the other. Above the fireplace, two swords crossed in support of the family crest. The fourth wall was just as impressive, covered with El Greco and Monet paintings.

She is in tears, begging to see you, Your Honor, the maid insisted sympathetically.

Did she say what she wanted? he answered curtly. It is almost eight in the evening, nearly curfew time, and with this miserable weather she shouldn’t be out in the streets. Send her away.

No, Your Honor, she didn’t say what she wanted. She only said that it is a matter of life and death.

Oh, another one of those, the old judge said. If she thinks I’m going to interfere with the Italians or the Germans just to have some poor relative of hers released from jail or labor camp, she’s wasting my time. He got up from his comfortable armchair, took a deep breath, pulled his velvet vest down, and peered at his gold pocket watch. Oh hell, show her in.

Anna walked down the long hallway in small, reluctant steps, shivering from her exposure to the rain and cold wind. The place had a distinct odor of centuries past and the towering walls seemed to close in, ready to devour her. Suddenly she felt a creeping, dreadful chill flow down her spine. She turned around, ready to head back toward the exit, when an imperious call of motherly love and sacrifice brought her to an abrupt halt. My son must have that medicine—or he will die.

She forced herself to move forward. The walk from the front door to the library seemed a thousand miles long.

Come in, child, said the old man. His bulging, greedy eyes ravenously examined Anna’s young slim body, prominently revealed through her rain-drenched clothes.

You may leave now, Daphne, he said, waving the maid away. And without taking his eyes off Anna he added, Close the door behind you. I don’t want to be disturbed.

The maid bowed, backed out of the room, and closed the heavy wooden door as she went and the thunderous sound echoed throughout the mansion. Anna’s throat tightened; she was a lamb trapped in a lion’s den.

"What is your name, koritsaki mou? It was common for a superior to address a female beneath his status as my little girl."

Anna, sir.

And what can I do for you, my dear? The judge spoke softly, watching her like a hungry beast stalking his prey. How old are you?

Seventeen, sir, she replied in a breathless whisper, her frightened eyes fixed on the floor. Oh mother of God, I wish I could just disappear this instant.

The Lieutenant Governor walked his blubbery body slowly, poised himself in front of her, and with the back of his thick, short-fingered hand, gave her a gentle and compassionate touch on the cheek.

Come, come now, child, I am not as bad as everybody out there thinks I am. He lowered his voice as his fat, sweaty face drew closer to hers. Now tell me, what brings you here?

Anna knew exactly what the old man was insinuating. She had to make a swift decision: her dignity and honor or her son’s life? She stood motionless in front of him. Still wet from the rain, shivering from the cold and from trepidation, tears cascaded down her pale cheeks as the judge slowly started to unbutton her dress. With painful humiliation, she gave in to his loathsome desires, internally controlling her revulsion and disgust. She compromised her self-respect and dignity, but she paid the demanded price without hesitation. She received the medicine she so desperately sought. Odysseas would live.

***

Shortly after Hitler’s defeat in 1945, a plague of civil war had spread over the Balkans. Wretched, starving Greece, particularly the northern part of the country, was inundated by hordes of communist rebels from Albania, Yugoslavia, and Bulgaria. These barbarians plundered villages, homes, monasteries, and churches, indiscriminately murdering priests and innocent civilians, raping women, including nuns. Their signature crimes were rape and the infamous pedomazoma, the kidnapping of children. It was a social, national, and family nightmare for the Greek populace.

Communist militants from nearby Albania would secretly invade the quiet seaside villages and communities by boat, kidnapping Greek boys five to twelve years of age and taking them to Albania. These boys were never to be seen by their families again. Serbs and Bulgarians invaded the inland villages by the borders of Epirus, Macedonia, and Thrace to commit similar atrocities. Forced to submission these young children were rounded up and taken to military camps inside the Communist bloc. The rebellious ones would be beaten and raped into submission. This practice continued until early 1949. Families were torn apart, and parents kept constant watch over their children.

Philip was recalled to duty in the national reserves and Anna was devastated by her husband’s news. She didn’t care about his orders.

What if our son gets ill again? she cried. The painful ordeal she had suffered just to get the medicine their son needed came back to her. She decided it was time to let her feelings be known, and to hell with the consequences. She didn’t care anymore. In an ashen voice, Anna confessed to her husband the humiliating torment she had gone through to pay the price of their son’s survival.

Philip, in a flash, went on a rampage. His offended vanity could not accept the truth. In his unforgiving mind Anna should have let nature take its course and let the child die rather than becoming an adulterous wife.

"Poutana," he shouted, cursing Jesus Christ and His Mother, and hurling other similar obscenities at her, as well as everything within reach. Anna instinctively cowered in the corner of the room for protection. Yaya Adrianna grabbed the baby Odysseas and ran out of the house to seek refuge at the neighbors, shattering in panic.

Papou Nicolas was sitting on the grass a short distance from the house, under the shade of the eucalyptus trees, having a cigarette and mending his fishing nets, when he saw his wife running with their baby grandson in her arms, screaming for help. He dropped the net he was working on, got up, and ran into the house just as the outraged Philip was preparing to strike Anna. Nicolas moved quickly between them. He stood strong and tall in front of Philip and placed his thick, leathery hands around his son-in-law’s skinny neck, holding him against the wall.

In a calm, stern voice, he said, I will no longer take care of your wife and child, but as of this very moment, I am taking charge of my daughter and my grandson. Now leave.

Philip left the house in a hurry, continuing to spout obscenities and vowing revenge. He took Anna to court, seeking divorce and full custody of their son.

It was a short hearing, a mockery of justice with a foregone conclusion. Under the impact of the ill-minded, anachronistic mentality of the days, Anna was labeled a two-bit whore and an unfit mother. Philip was quickly granted divorce and full custody of their son, leaving Anna to live with the condemnation and injustice she had received.

By 1946 the country was in ruins and the brutal civil war was in full swing. The entire Greek nation was deep in a great depression, and in even greater despair. There were no jobs, no food, no money, and no hope. Emotionally shattered, Anna packed a bag with the few shabby clothes, and with the shreds of her molested dignity she left by boat for Athens through the mine-infested waters of the Ionian Sea.

In 1950, when Odysseas was ten, Philip decided to re-marry. In an effort to make his new wife more contented and happy, he suddenly had a change of heart and granted his maternal grandparents access to Odysseas. He allowed the boy to visit and spend time with Nicolas and Adrianna in Anemomylos. For Odysseas, that was an extraordinary and exhilarating indulgence. Papou Nicolas took him fishing on his little boat and for Odysseas, going out to sea was life at its peak.

One day Nicolas had to go out fishing for more than a day’s trip, and Odysseas felt an irresistible impulse to go out to sea as well, on his own, but there was no boat. He confessed his desire to his next-door buddy of the same age, Nikos Gravias.

No problem, Nikos reassured Odysseas, Let’s take my mom’s washtub from the back yard—she won’t miss it.

Are you sure we won’t get in trouble?

Come on, don’t worry, everything is going to be just fine. Let’s go. Nikos insisted.

The two would-be young sailors sneaked into Mrs. Gravias’s backyard and took her wooden washtub, carried it to the water’s edge, and launched it at the east end of Anemomylos. Since the washtub did not come with oars, the washboard became very handy. Their voyage, however, didn’t last very long. Mother Nature came along in the form of a downpour.

Odysseas, we are taking water! shouted Nikos in a panic.

Don’t worry, Odysseas replied calmly. Let’s get out and stand up in the water.

Luckily, the water was only two feet deep. They jumped out of their sinking ship in a big hurry and stood up in the waist-deep water. With great difficulty, they turned the tub over their heads and held it to avoid getting wet.

The rain continued as they made their way to shore, quietly listening to the muffled, patternless music created by the raindrops as they kept falling on the upside-down tub.

The fun and games continued worry-free that hot summer of 1950 for Odysseas and his accomplice, Nikos. One lazy afternoon, while the people of that peaceful community were taking their ritual siestas, the boys secretly took Papou Nicolas’s little boat and set sail for the unknown.

Hey Odysseas, let’s go around the jetty to Mon Repos and watch the girls swimming, suggested Nikos, and pointed south.

Yes, good idea, Odysseas agreed, Just don’t tell anybody.

"Logo timis." Word of honor.

They rowed around the jetty of Anemomylos and set their course south. It was calm and windless. After a short stop at the public beach of Mon Repos and a peep at the girls in bathing suits they decided to get some rest from all that rowing.

They docked at a nearby small pier, where a boy about their age was fishing. Slowly they pushed their boat closer, while the strange boy walked in their direction and greeted them politely.

"Yeassas Pedia. Hi guys, I am Constantinos. My father Paul is a king, and my mother Frederica is a queen," said the boy ingenuously. Unknowingly, they had trespassed onto the Mon Repos Royal Estates, a prestigious landmark where the royal summer palace dominates the view over the azure Ionian Sea.

Odysseas and Nikos could not believe they were in the presence of Prince Constantine. The prince was alone on the pier, completely unescorted, testing his fishing skills, and in no time at all, these three ten-year-olds, completely unaware of the social chasm separating them, became best friends and fishing buddies. Like any kids having fun, they lost track of time. It was near sunset when two distressed gendarmes, palace security guards, rushed down to the dock looking for the young prince. The guards immediately escorted Constantine back to the palace, rudely ordering Nikos and Odysseas to get lost.

Simultaneously, the already alerted Limenarchion, Harbor Patrol, spotted the boys’ little boat as it pulled away from the royal dock and took the two young seafarers back home under tow. With the frightening experiences of pedomazoma still fresh in their minds, the entire community was on alert, and a great degree of excitement and fear for the two missing boys had been generated. As soon as they docked back at the home pier, the welcoming committee of concerned and unnerved parents gave the two wanderers their own royal reception, something their little backsides would remember for a long time.

The years passed at a slow pace. With the help of Father Dimitrios Artavanis, a close family friend and priest, Odysseas had stayed in touch with his mother in Athens. Now he knew where she was, and nothing would have kept him from her. It was early 1955, and Odysseas, at age fourteen, found the courage and stood up to his father.

I am dropping out of high school and getting out of here, he declared. I am going to join the navy. They have a program where I can become a cadet, finish my high school education, and learn a useful trade as well.

On October 29, 1955, Odysseas had his head shaved and was issued his first navy cadet uniform. He proudly joined the Royal Hellenic Navy. He had finally broken the chains of his father’s domination and was reunited with his mother in Athens.

Chapter 3

Greece, March 20, 1969

A soft spring rain, blending harmoniously with the invigorating iodine-scented Aegean Sea, filled the chill air around His Majesty’s Hellenic Ship Rhodes. She was an refitted old World War II Navy LST, a landing ship used as a personnel transport vessel. She had just sailed from her home port of Souda Bay, Crete, passed the Nissida, the small island guarding the bay, and turned north on a course of 002 degrees. Now, gently and clumsily, she