Toes of Apollo

By Tom Swicegood

Toes of Apollo is an exciting nautical adventure dramatizing the best and the worst about the U.S. Coast Guard. Its the Caine Mutiny on steroids! Lt. (jg) Tom Stierwell, a twenty-two year old office falls in love with the beautiful daughter of Captain Kearse, an out-of-control commanding officer on the Coast Guards Albatrosss, a unique mystery ship operating in the Eastern Mediterranean, six-thousand miles from the USA. The location is on land and ashore in tumultuous Greece where the Colossus of Rhodes once stood, where religion and greed are a deadly reality on an island of Muslim minarets and the rebuilt castle of Christian crusaders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475972191

Tom Swicegood

Tom Swicegood graduated from Admiral Farragut Academy and the University of Florida. He served on a US Coast Guard icebreaker in Alaska and on a Voice of America ship in the Mediterranean. He is the author of several books and has written and directed movies in Hollywood. He currently lives in Edgewater, Florida.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was an outstanding day for flying.

Beneath Athens’ blue, nearly cloudless dome of sky, engines of an aging Olympic Airlines DC-3 sputtered to life. Bright sunlight sparkled on the Greek airplane’s wings. Passengers holding tickets impatiently stood on a narrow strip of tarmac.

Wearing a tailored U. S. Coast Guard uniform, Ensign Tom Stierwell held a lightweight tan coat draped over his left arm. The surroundings were totally foreign to the young officer. Only five days before he’d been snugly bundled in layers of foul weather clothing on the Storis, an icebreaker underway in the Gulf of Alaska. After the rescue of a storm-tossed trawler, Stierwell and the ship’s captain stood on the bridge, heading for their home port, Juneau.

A first-class radioman approached. Here’s a new radio message, Captain, the man said, handing his clipboard to Commander Aaronsen who studied a short typed paragraph, raised an inquiring eyebrow, grinned, and then passed the clipboard to Stierwell. The words were very much to the point:

Your current assignment is terminated. You are ordered to immediately report for duty to Commanding Officer, U.S.C.G.C. Albatross (W 414), at her present location in the Eastern Mediterranean. No delay or leave is authorized. Travel will commence immediately.

s/Commandant, U. S. Coast Guard, Washington, D. C.

Wow, was all the young officer could say.

Did you know about this? the captain asked, admittedly suspicious.

Twenty-two year old Stierwell was dumbfounded. No, sir, I can’t believe it. This is out of the blue. They’re sending me to a Coast Guard ship somewhere in Europe?

Yes, and it’s damn peculiar! You’ve done good here, groused Aaronsen, not pleased to unexpectedly lose a dependable officer. Commander Aaronsen turned to nearby watch standers, the quartermaster, helmsman, and messengers who were all listening. Mister Stierwell’s been transferred to a Coast Guard ship in the Mideast from Alaska to the Mediterranean. Must be nearly half way around the world! he declared, knowing the information would rapidly circulate. Eight additional officers and a hundred sailors would soon know as much about Stierwell’s transfer as did the ensign.

My orders only say report to a ship nobody knows anything about, Tom later told a gathering of men in his deck division. "The orders don’t say where this Albatross is—or what she does. And I find it hard to believe the United States Coast Guard has ships wandering around between Europe and Africa. The Navy, yes, but our Coast Guard? I don’t think so."

Maybe you can get to Egypt? It would be great to go see the pyramids, a seaman declared.

I can see you riding a camel, said another.

Laughter followed.

Captain Aaronsen walked past the group. He paused only long enough to declare, It’s no joke, guys. There’s no telling what Mister Stierwell can expect. There was a twinkle in the skipper’s eyes but he was serious.

In the morning Tom arrived early at Juneau’s Seventeenth District offices. A yeoman there only accentuated the general lack of information, repeating the little anyone knew: Tom was to travel immediately and the American Embassy in Athens, Greece, would most likely give him further instructions—if there were any.

No passport would be issued.

Travel would be via United States Military Air Transportation (M.A.T.S.)—to Newfoundland, Canada, thence to Libya, North Africa, and eventually to Greece. What a strange feeling! To be ordered to duty on the other side of the world and not know what was waiting, or why!

Commander Aaronsen eventually offered a clue, but only after searching through a stack of Coast Guard magazines gathering dust in his cabin. "The Albatross’s commanding officer is named Kearse, Aaronsen told Thomas, Roland D. D. Kearse. Nobody knows what the D. D. stands for. Could be Death and Destruction. At least that’s his nickname, behind his back, of course. He’s a four-striper, Academy man, graduated from New London in the same year as your father. That puts them in the same class, same rank, but your dad’s a few numbers up the ladder for promotion purposes. Kearse probably doesn’t like that. He had a ship sunk under him in the Pacific. Scuttlebutt has it he didn’t do too well with that. As a result he’s spent a lot of time behind a desk shuffling papers. Eventually, after about ten years, somebody finally assigned him to the Albatross."

What’s he like?

Aaronsen frowned. As a commanding officer? That’s a good question. I honestly don’t know, Thomas. You’ll have to find that out for yourself.

Chapter 2

Packing was easy for Ensign Stierwell. The most expensive things he owned were a Smith & Wesson nickel plated .38 that had never been fired, and a small carved ivory polar bear he bought from an Eskimo for a souvenir. They were stuffed into a duffel bag along with a Dopp kit containing his toothbrush, a mini-flashlight, his razor, and rubbers.

The deck crew smuggled a pint of Bacardi aboard and mixed it with Coke for Tom’s going away night. All of us wish you well, said Ray Bishop, raising a glass. Good luck and Godspeed, you been a decent officer. You’re a likeable guy. Even Morty the Mouser’s gonna miss you.

Morty was the Storis’ cat. He had stowed away as a kitten and been aboard for a year. Morty liked going to sea and refused to be taken ashore, hissing and screaming if anybody tried. Tom fed and took care of him. Every time the captain saw Thomas petting Morty he would say, Get rid of that cat!

It never happened.

Nobody expected it would.

The Storis was a good hard working ship and the men liked each other. Most of them had farewell comments. May the wind always be at your back and the best of luck to Cecilia, too, grinned a first class petty officer about Tom’s age. Everybody laughed. The man was referring to a busty young woman the eligible ensign had been dating until her father, the chief of police in Skagway, Alaska, threatened to come looking for Tom with a shotgun. Everybody knows the Coast Guard’s transferring you twelve thousand miles to get you away from Cecilia’s poppa! the laughing sailor declared.

There may have been truth in the statement.

A few days later, after stops in Argentia, Newfoundland, and Tripoli, North Africa, plus several sleepless nights and thousands of uncomfortable air miles, Tom finally arrived in Athens. He presented himself at the American Embassy where diplomatic people responded with empty stares. At first nobody seemed to have any idea about the Albatross’s whereabouts and, as he moved from floor to floor, from desk to desk in the diplomatic building, Tom had an empty feeling that nobody knew anything about his arrival either. When he felt totally lost, one Foreign Service clerk, a slight, inconsequential looking man tucked away at a small desk in an obscure corner, quietly voiced some knowledge.

Last I heard, he disclosed, the ship was operating near the Dodecanese.

What are the Dodecanese? Tom asked.

"They’re islands. Dodeca means twelve in Greek. It’s a group of twelve islands. Rhodes is the largest. That’s where you’ll most likely find her—the Island of Rhodes."

Rhodes?

"Rodos in Greek. Rodi in Italian. Beautiful place, they say. I’ve never been there."

"Is that where I’ll find the Albatross?"

I can’t swear. We don’t get too much information about her. She was in port two weeks ago.

"What port?’

Rhodes.

What if she’s not there now?

The clerk shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. He made a phone call. After a while a woman clerk came to the desk and handed Tom a voucher for an airplane ticket. This will get you to Rhodes. Good luck, she said, then turned away without further comment.

Until the following afternoon the ensign was on his own, a stranger in a strange city, with a language he didn’t understand, with fantastically inflated Greek paper money (thirty thousand drachma to one American dollar), and a handful of unfamiliar customs. No problem. There was a lot Tom could do.

He watched the changing-of-the-guard ceremony at Constitution Square where Greek soldiers paraded around looking like wind-up toy soldiers in white ballerina skirts. He purchased a bikini that folded as small as a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes. Putting it on, he felt a little nervous about being so nearly naked in Athens’ open-to-the-public Olympic pool. As if there wasn’t enough skin showing to make him uncomfortable, when water wet the bikini it became totally transparent.

His greatest satisfaction in the sprawling city was walking from his hotel, the King George V, ignoring a mile of slums, heading up a hill to the Acropolis overlooking the city. There was a thrill in pressing his fingertips against the magnificent ruins of the Parthenon. Touching its fallen marble columns scattered about in dry weeds was exciting. Thomas couldn’t remember much about famous Greek warriors and philosophers but he had no doubt that Alexander the Great and Socrates probably walked where he was standing. He searched his memory but recalled little of what he’d learned about their lives in history classes.

The following afternoon at the airport he was ready for whatever the unknown held. His airplane trip to Rhodes would last a little over an hour, with one stop, and the flight promised to be nice because the weather was perfect. Athens’ tranquility, however, was about to be disrupted. In several languages, the neatly uniformed airline stewardess had patiently promised two dozen waiting passengers, a full plane load, that they would be boarding any minute, but nothing seemed to be happening. There was considerable complaining. As Thomas was soon to learn, Mediterranean people can cause as great a ruckus as irritated people anywhere.

Among the group a young woman stood out. She had a smooth suntan, inviting deep violet eyes, and silky black hair cut short just above her shoulders. She was dressed simply, with a belted skirt and a white peasant blouse unbuttoned at the throat. None of the men could keep their eyes from devouring her.

Tom wondered if she spoke English.

Then all hell broke loose.

Two horn-blaring limousines with little Greek flags flying on each side of their front bumpers, driven by Greek army officers, sped toward the group. They were followed closely by an old army truck with two dozen standing soldiers crowded on its flatbed. The truck stopped twenty feet from the shiny airplane. Men in pressed khaki uniforms with rifles and bayonets hurriedly jumped off and directed civilians to move aside. They took positions near the airplane’s steps and formed an aisle, six on a side, facing each other. A heavyset and forceful officer barked orders. His troops resoundingly slapped their rifles. In a well-choreographed movement, the detail came to present arms.

Other soldiers moved to the limousines and opened the passenger doors. Four dark-bearded priests emerged. All were dressed in flowing black cotton robes. Two were middle-aged and had a prosperous appearance. The other two were younger and were probably bodyguards.

The leading priest, a short robust man, flaunted a cylindrical black hat about eight inches high. From his hat trailed a ludicrous black veil and around his neck hung an overly large gold medallion. He used an ornate cane. As he walked past Stierwell, the American officer uncomfortably realized the big man’s dark-lidded eyes had singled him out from the waiting crowd. For a moment the priest sternly appraised both him and his uniform. Then the religious entourage carefully lifted their skirts, ascended a portable step, and boarded the airplane.

Olympic’s DC-3 had single seats on each side of the aisle. The four men in priest’s garb seated themselves up front across from each other, directly behind the bulkhead separating them from the pilot’s cabin. Seemingly unaware of any other persons, they immediately turned to the business of making themselves comfortable.

The young lady with lovely violet eyes took a seat toward the back of the airplane. She had breathtaking breasts and men were inevitably attracted. One after another she politely informed them the empty seat across the aisle from her was saved. When Stierwell was close she motioned him to sit.

Tom folded his jacket and stowed it in an overhead rack. It’s a nice day, he said, enunciating each word carefully, putting on his very best smile, and hoping she would understand.

Oh, yes, Mister American, the young woman replied as she efficiently clicked her seatbelt. It is a very nice day.

Oh, you speak English! I’m glad. I don’t know any Greek.

You assume I’m Greek?

It seems reasonable.

Well, I am half Greek.

And the other half is what?

Part of me is American.

No? Really?

Yes. Greek is the best part.

You’re going to Rhodes?

I worked at the British Embassy.

On Rhodes?

In Nicosia on Cyprus.

I don’t know where that is.

Four hundred miles east of Rhodes.

Is it another Greek island?

A patient smile formed on the young woman’s carefully painted red lips. Unfortunately, no! Cyprus has never been Greek although mostly Greeks live there. Meanwhile, the English occupy the island.

You don’t like the British?

I think they should go home.

Then why work for them?

I don’t anymore. You should fasten your seat belt.

I will.

Do you have a name?

Thomas.

Mine is Leiri.

Leiri?

"Leiri Yalova. In Greek leiri means lily."

Now I’ve learned a word in Greek.

"Ne."

That means no, of course, as in nay, nay, nay!

"No. Ne means yes."

You’re kidding?

"I’m not. Ne sounds like no in English, or nein in German, or nyet in Russian, but ne means yes in Greek. The word for no in Greek is oxi very difficult for foreigners to pronounce. It’s not easy for Americans to say no in Greece."

Tom’s inclination was to reply with something suggestive. Instead he asked, How many languages can you speak?

Seven, I think. Five good. English, of course, and Greek, Turkish, Russian and French. A little Arabic. Some people are good with languages.

Tom shook his head. I’m not, he said, but before he could add more he realized that Leiri, while speaking to him, was watching the religious foursome up front. Leaning across the aisle, Tom looked from Leiri toward the men in black robes and whispered, Some big deal they made coming aboard! What a fuss with soldiers and all. Who are they?

Leiri’s response, as with many things the young ensign discovered in Greece, was not what he expected. There was both familiarity and awe in her face. You don’t know? she asked.

"Oxi—no. I don’t."

The heavy man with the medallion? He’s the Archbishop.

A preacher?

He’s the Archbishop of Cyprus!

Never heard of him.

You are kidding?

I’m not.

Makarios is head of the Cypriot Orthodox Church. He is the most powerful man in Greece.

He looks like a fat guy in a black skirt with black veils.

Leiri showed mild displeasure. Would you belittle the Archbishop of Canterbury?

I never think about him. But no, I guess not.

You need to be serious. Don’t be so American! There’s no separation between church and state here. Politics and religion are close to the same in this part of the world, Leiri said, leaning across the aisle and lowering her voice. Words can be dangerous. Observe that I’m serious. Everybody in Athens including Queen Frederika and Field Marshal Papagos bow to Makarios. And incidentally, the Archbishop’s not Greek.

He’s not?

He’s Cypriot.

Is there a difference?

Oh, you have so much to learn!

Chapter 3

There was no more waiting before take off. The DC3 began taxiing as soon as its door was closed, racing past ditches of red clay and dodging potholes on a World War II runway. The airplane quickly climbed aloft into the clear blue sky and banked gently over a colorful coastline of picturesque harbors. They headed southeast in the general direction of Rhodes, the plane’s final destination, a distance of a little less than three hundred miles.

Their flight path mimicked the curve of Asia Minor’s southwestern shoreline. In minutes Ensign Stierwell was gazing down at hundreds of islands, the fabled scenic jewelry of the Aegean Sea. To his left, not very distant, was a constantly visible misty gray landmass that was Turkey.

Often leaning toward Tom, Leiri displayed a magical combination of charm and historical knowledge. She exuded a pleasant sweet fragrance that gently clung to her. Her knowledge of the world was equally notable as she readily ticked off details of Hellenic-Ottoman conflicts, not skipping any of the erotic highpoints of the Trojan War. Helen of Troy was what you’d call a beautiful tease, no, that’s too nice. It was more than her pretty face, it was the flagrant sexual infidelity of Helen that launched the thousand ships you’ve heard about, she said. Whether she was the reason for war or an excuse for war, diplomatically or with guns, Turkey and Greece have been at each other ever since.

The DC-3’s only stop was the island of Kos. Their time on the ground was short, but Archbishop Makarios left his seat and walked in the aisle, presumably to stretch his legs. He stopped just forward of Leiri. The two exchanged a greeting and a few businesslike words in Greek. Their conversation was short. After a few seconds Makarios turned to Thomas, extending his well-manicured fingers as if the American should kiss his massive gold ring. Not prepared for that, the ensign stood and stepped into the aisle to shake hands. To his surprise he discovered that he was taller than the Archbishop and looking down into deceptively gentle eyes.

Makarios was younger than he appeared, barely forty. His height was an illusion; a couple of inches less than six feet. The sureness of his stance, however, his tall black hat (almost a part of him in public), and his orthodox beard of coarse black hair, slightly streaked with gray, created an awesome impression.

Ensign Stierwell, said Leiri, making introductions, Archbishop Makarios of Cyprus.

How do you do, sir? was the best reply Thomas could manage.

The Archbishop smiled. I am—very good, he answered, his voice tentative and surprisingly unassuming. Please forgive my poor English. I study in your country a year and some months but I do not learn English easy. I think in Greek. And you?

I can figure out your letters, those that are capitals. This morning in Athens I saw POLYTECHNIC" in capital Greek letters carved over the entrance of a large building. I deciphered the letters one at a time—then realized I knew the word. Polytechnic in Greek is polytechnic in English."

"Ah, yes. There are many words like this. And tell me, you are—Naftiko—American Navy?"

I’m in the U. S. Coast Guard, sir. I’m going to Rhodes to try and find my ship. Nobody seems to know where she is—exactly.

Recognition flashed in Makarios’ eyes. "Ah, ne, yes! Leiri has told me of the Albatross. You will be on that ship?"

Yes.

With the Captain Kearse?

Yes, he’s her skipper.

The Archbishop’s brow furrowed. He looked as though he had something more to say about the ship or the captain but after another glance at Leiri changed his mind. He became thoughtful instead and put a forefinger to his lips. Although his nails were well manicured and his fingers appeared soft, there was nothing soft about the man. Let me make a suggestion, Makarios resumed, a change of tone creeping into his voice. Be careful, young officer. I hear your captain is a strange man—and you are long way from home. Leiri can tell you.

The warning gave Stierwell a chill.

There was something definably threatening in the Archbishop’s reference to the ship’s commanding officer, yet Makarios, having spoken, had no intention of explaining. He smiled warmly, dismissed the ensign with a casual nod, and walked back to his seat. No sooner than Makarios’ seatbelt was fastened, the stewardess signaled the pilot. With a roar of engines the airplane climbed back into the sky. Below, postcard views of the Greek islands and the sparkling sea seemed to become increasingly attractive.

What did he mean you can tell me?

Later. Right now look out the window. It is so beautiful I like to think of this as being where the world began, said Leiri. Do you know it is not far away—on the Archbishop’s island—where Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, arose from the sea?

Which island is that?

Cyprus. Aphrodite appeared less than twenty miles from the village of Ano Panayia. That’s where Makarios was born.

"You’re talking about the Aphrodite, the naked Venus who came out of the sea standing on a clamshell?"

Yes, the same as in Botticelli’s painting. I’m sure you’ve seen it, Leiri laughed, again leaning toward Thomas across the aisle. As she looked out of his window, her warm hand rested casually on his shoulder. He could feel the tips of her fingers brushing his neck. His pulse rate increased. When he turned and looked into her eyes Leiri smiled happily, just a very pretty girl instead of an authoritative figure who knew important religious and political leaders.

A few minutes later Leiri pointed toward a prominent island coming into view ahead of the DC-3’s silvery wing. Tom pressed his nose against the window and intently stared at a diamond-shaped island. It was nearly fifty miles long, perhaps twenty miles wide, with mountains and green valleys, and surrounded by the bluest expanse of water anywhere, the Aegean on one side and the Mediterranean on the other.

Magnificent Rhodes was spread before them!

There is a myth, said Leiri, her words like music in Tom’s ear, "that early in time as Earth’s land and seas were being created, the Greek gods—Zeus, Athena, Apollo, and almost all the rest—drew lots to divide up the world for themselves. But they forgot about leaving a share of land for the sun god, Helios. He was away for the day, as usual, driving his great blazing chariot, the sun, across the sky from horizon to horizon.

"When Helios returned to Mount Olympus after sunset he was furious, didn’t much like having been shared out. He stormed into the great Hall of the Gods and demanded lots be drawn again. But, before anything more happened, Helios looked down from on high. Lo and behold, he gazed upon the birth of the most beautiful land anyone had ever seen. Appearing above the waves, a magnificent new island was just then rising from the sea. It had wonderful pristine beaches and rivers and green forests, with groves of oranges and olives in the valleys, fields of colorful flowers everywhere, and deer and butterflies.

"‘Let me have that wondrous place!’ Helios declared, awestruck. ‘I want only that! Give that one island to me. You can keep all the rest of the world for yourselves.’

The gods eventually agreed, whereupon a delighted Helios rejoiced and named his new island Rhodes after a daughter of Poseidon, the nymph Rhode, whom he loved.

And when was all this?

Oh, I’m not able to tell it happened before the beginning of human time.

You’re telling me that’s all true mythology.

Yes.

The ensign grinned. He had more questions, but the pilot gunned the plane’s engines as the DC-3 flew over the island of ragged mountains, lush valleys, vegetable farms and orchards. On the far side of the island the plane began banking counter-clockwise, heading north from the temple at Lindos where a high mountain cliff plunges hundreds of feet down into the sea.

Descending constantly for another score of miles, the airplane banked again and flew due west over the City of Rhodes. Passengers could get hasty glimpses of winding Old City streets, intricate mosques, Muslim minarets, and a fabulous castle originally built by Christian crusaders and rebuilt by Italians centuries later. Beyond stone walls and a moat there was the larger new part of the city.

Tom saw three small harbors close together. The harbor at each end was suitable for sailboats, caiques, and other small craft. Only the one in the middle, Puerto Mercantile, had deep water. A large gray ship was moored on the eastern side occupying nearly half of a concrete dock. With merely seconds to glimpse the vessel, Tom discovered to his astonishment that between the ship’s masts, fore and aft, there was a flat, rectangular platform deck about the size of a basketball court. From a small opening in the platform’s center a long vertical cable stretched hundreds feet up into the afternoon sky. At the top of the cable floated an immense silver-gray balloon, a streamlined gas bag with aerodynamic tail fins, tethered like an airborne whale.

Under the blimp, that’s your ship, Leiri said, pointing.

Tom allowed his jaw to fall. "That’s the Albatross? She’s big! Twice as big as a ship I was on before."

Leiri nodded. It’s docked where many people believe the Colossus stood.

The Colossus of Rhodes? One of the world’s Seven Wonders? It stood right there? Honest? Or are you kidding?

Unromantic people say the statue was located someplace else. I believe Colossus straddled Puerto Mercantile’s entrance. Nobody knows for sure.

The ensign tried to look back to again see where one of the famous wonders of the ancient world may have stood, but it was too late. The big Coast Guard ship and three harbors were already left behind. Leiri, however, continued playing tour guide.

"Over two-thousand years ago a gifted sculptor named Chares erected a bronze statue to honor the sun god, patron deity of Rhodes. Today tourists often think the sun god was Apollo, but he wasn’t. Apollo was the god of sun light. Helios is god of the sun, which may be splitting hairs because you probably can’t have one without the other. Helios’ statue was tall, about the same as your Stature of Liberty. And he was naked. Ships coming into port sailed between his spread legs."

"You mean if he existed small ships may have sailed between his legs?"

Leiri sighed. He existed, she said firmly.

Are there any pictures? Prints or drawings to make you think he existed?

Unfortunately, no. Only new stuff, artist’s conceptions. Remember, Thomas, this was in antiquity. The Colossus hasn’t been around for over two-thousand years. They didn’t have cameras in those days so you can’t expect that kind of proof. Helios buckled at his ankles in an earthquake and smashed into a lot of pieces. That was three-hundred years before the birth of Christ.

So how much of Colossus is left?

It’s said a Jewish merchant bought the bronze and hauled it away on nine hundred camels.

Did he get all of it?

He didn’t leave much.

How much can you load on a camel?

I have no idea.

Yet without any evidence you still believe Helios straddled the harbor.

Leiri nodded in the affirmative but, before she could verbally reply, the aircraft touched down on the island’s dirt runway. Its brakes began furiously beating the air. The plane bumped over rough terrain and came to a jerky halt. When its door was opened all that could be seen of the airport’s surroundings were Rhodes’ mountains and, looking north across a dozen miles of water, the hazy terrain of Turkey. There was also dust and a huge crowd of people.

The Archbishop prepared to deplane. Everyone else waited. There was an unspoken understanding no one would precede him. When the four priests moved toward the door, Makarios paused, again had a glance for Leiri, and momentarily looked into Thomas’ eyes. This time the Archbishop’s fleeting expression indicated concern. Then, followed by his entourage, he immediately looked away.

There was only one structure at the airport, a plain two-story building with a small wood balcony over its front door. Near the entrance, on the barren manmade plateau for landing airplanes, local men and women were waiting. There were as many as five hundred persons, a mixture of sweaty peasants who had arrived on donkeys and shopkeepers who drove from town in jalopies held together with hairpins and bailing wire.

Several politicians in hot double-breasted suits guided Archbishop Makarios into the rear of the unremarkable building. Minutes later he and his group stepped out in front onto the stark little balcony. Murmurs of excitement ran through the assembly. Leiri pulled at Tom’s sleeve, urging him to push forward until they could see and hear better. Uncomfortably surrounded by the awestruck locals, Thomas felt he had been transported into some kind of foreign political campaign. What had been a docile crowd was suddenly enthralled by sight of their powerful black-robed champion.

The ensign’s senses were jolted. Hundreds of right arms all around him were raised and repeatedly thrust forward. The mass of people, like a mob, began rhythmically shouting a word with three syllables.

What are they saying? Tom asked.

"A Greek word Enosis," explained Leiri, shouting into his ear.

"E-no-sis?" Tom repeated without comprehension, putting his arm around his companion’s small waist to protect her from being jostled. She was the only person who seemed sane in the crowd. The shouting became increasingly frantic.

Enosis! Enosis!

Up on the balcony, the Archbishop was nodding benevolently and repeatedly making regal motions with the back of his hand. This Makarios was not like the person Ensign Stierwell had met on the airplane. Makarios’ public voice was different, firm and compelling, totally controlled, mesmerizing from his first utterance.

Leiri began translating for Thomas. If there is violence in Cyprus today there is only one place to put blame—upon a Turkish minority and their international friends. I do not believe our Greek brethren on Cyprus will be allowed by the great powers, Great Britain and the United States, to be peacefully unified with our homeland.

"Oxi," shouted several men nearby.

Shame! Shame! Shame!

The Archbishop smiled at the interruption, nodded, and continued. As a representative of God I deplore armed conflict. I cannot incite men to harm each other. Bloodshed must be our last resort, but—

The crowd began chanting again. Their passion was patriotic and political, wanting Cyprus to become a legal part of Greece, their homeland. Bloodshed, obviously, was not a problem. They were loud, the older Greeks as vociferous as the younger, eager to be heard and ready to die after years of dampened pride and foreign repression.

"Enosis! Enosis! Enosis!"

The intensity of the voices was growing. Tom still could only guess what enosis meant, but Leiri saw his furrowed brow and explained. "Enosis is not complicated. It means union with something. Greeks everywhere want Cyprus to be a part of Greece."

How long since it was?

Leiri gave Tom a strange smile.

What’s the matter? he asked, surprised.

"Cyprus has never been Greek," she quickly explained.

Never?

It has been everything else—it was Turkish for four hundred years. Then came Italians. After Mussolini the Germans. Now the British are rulers. Eighty percent of Cypriots are Greek. The rest are mostly Turkish. Greece wants the entire island. Turkey says it belongs to them. An all out war between Greece and Turkey will mean trouble for NATO. Member countries lining up on different sides! The truth is that everyone takes everything away from Greece. It’s called stealing.

Makarios continued speaking, his words powerful and bombastic. They sounded like nothing that would be uttered by an Angel of Reason. Leiri resumed translating. The British smile but they are not our friends. Do they think we are fools? Their foreign secretary, Anthony Eden, speaks of ‘bright tomorrows’ while Turks murder our Cypriot brothers in Nicosia’s streets. The time must come for us to sever a one-sided friendship. There can be no peace until the English pack their bags and Turks agree Cyprus is ours!

"Enosis!"

Be steadfast, be heroic. Have pride.

"Enosis!"

Act boldly!

Ne! Ne! Enosis! Enosis!

The freedom of Cypriot Greeks must not be sacrificed on the altar of Turkish threats, British imperialism, or American might!

"Oxi! Oxi! Oxi!" screamed the sweating crowd.

Tom pulled Leiri closer. He couldn’t help thinking how good she felt against him, even in the midst of madness. As he tried to shield her from the masses he couldn’t help but think of how special she seemed. Leiri buried her face into Tom’s chest and continued translating.

I am obliged to use the language of truth, Makarios declared. "The British understand diplomacy only when their blood is spilled. As a man of the faith I cannot exhort you to violence. I will leave that to others. But God is on our side. The Lord is with us. We must never rest until everything that was Greek is Greek again!"

The chanting resumed.

The Archbishop took a deep breath and, before the crowd became silent, continued speaking. I do not know what actions will become necessary, he said, his voice rising. No one desires force. I am a man of peace but I am also Ethnarch, your leader. I will accept assistance even from hands whose fingers are dirty.

There was more to be said, but before the Archbishop could name nations with dirty hands, two gunshots rang out in quick succession. Deadly bullets meant for Makarios slammed into the wood railing inches in front of him. Dismay swept the crowd.

The Archbishop was hurried inside the building.

Leiri’s fingertips dug into Thomas’ side. Her face paled. The blood seemed drained out of it. The would-be assassin had to have been close. They could smell gunpowder but didn’t see anyone carrying a weapon.

The Archbishop’s supporters were hurrying to safer places. That seemed like a good idea. Keeping a grip on Leiri’s arm, Tom took several steps toward the airplane. Still on the runway it looked like an oasis of safety but moments later there was a another serious disturbance. A loud explosion shook the area. The blast’s center was close to where Makarios’ limousine was waiting!

Debris, mostly vehicle parts, pelted the balcony.

Torn metal and bloody flesh rained down on nearby spectators whom, already distressed, began scattering, running wildly in every direction. None seemed to know what to do. Tom pulled Leiri to the ground and threw his torso over her. Frightened people were like stampeding cattle, hysterically racing around. Some frantically started old automobiles. Others used any transportation to leave the scene, including scooters, rickety bicycles, worn shoe leather, and over-burdened donkeys.

Minutes passed before the insanity subsided. Still holding Leiri, Tom expected to find her