The Treasure of Crete

By Donald Anderson

With a history dating back over 4,000 years, Crete was the home of Europe’s oldest civilization. This island, and its culture, provides the setting for a story of adventure that takes place during the final decade of the Cold War. Five Americans, stationed on a small Naval Base, become involved in a search for religious and historical artifacts hidden from the Nazis during the Second World War. What they discover is more precious than any of them could imagine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donald K Anderson
• Release date: Jun 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986054728

Book preview

The Treasure of Crete

Copyright 2022 by Donald K Anderson

Printed in the United States.  All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any matter without written consent from the author.

Although the main characters in this book are fictitious, with any resemblance to persons living or dead coincidental and unintentional, some of the minor characters were partially inspired by individuals whom the author served with during his time in the military.  There are also references to historical persons and events dating back from Antiquity to the Second World War.

Cover Designs:  by Jon Perry

Front Cover Image: Amphorae at Palace of Knossos

Courtesy of Project History Teacher

ISBN:  979-8-9860547-2-8

Dedicated to:

The Men and Women who have honorably worn the uniform of the United States military.

    There is a land called Crete, in the midst of the wine-dark sea, a fair, rich land, begirt with water, and therein are many men, past counting, and ninety cities.

Homer, The Odyssey

    The people of Crete unfortunately make more history than they can consume locally.

Hector Hugh Munro

One:  The Gentleman on the Plane

My grandfather was a great storyteller.  Before passing away during my senior year in high school, he fueled my imagination with tales of his own life, as well as those of ancient writers.  Thus, my childhood education included such classics as the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh, One Thousand and One Arabian Nights, and Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey.  My favorite was the latter of Homer’s works, for as far as I can remember the adventures of Odysseus inspired my desire to travel abroad and see more of this world.  This was one of several factors that motivated my enlistment in the military after high school graduation.  And although the chances of encountering a cyclops or lotus-eater appeared unlikely, nevertheless I was confident that leaving home would provide opportunities to experience peoples and lands far more exotic than the cornfields of the Midwest.

    One day opportunity knocked, and I answered.  After two years of serving in the States, orders arrived for a transfer to overseas duty in Greece.  If only grandfather were alive to share in my exhilaration!  I would soon be visiting the birthplace of science and democracy, the soil that nurtured Odysseus and Achilles, as well as Pericles and Socrates.  My anticipation was such that I passed on taking leave to go home before reporting to my new base.  The plan was to save vacation time for Europe.

    On a bright, sunny morning in early March I caught a MAC (military airlift command) flight from California to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland.  This long, tedious trip was only the first part of the day’s itinerary.  Still ahead, lie a transfer to Dulles airport in Washington, followed by another flight to New York City where I would be spending the night and much of the next day.  This would be my first, and quite brief, visit to the Big Apple.  It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time I stumbled into my hotel room, a short cab ride from LaGuardia Airport.

    After a surprisingly good night’s sleep, it was time for a little sightseeing.  Fortunately, management allowed me to keep my bags behind the motel’s front desk, allowing me to visit the Statue of Liberty, Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum without their burden.  By three o’clock that afternoon I picked up the luggage at the motel and headed toward JFK Airport for the overnight flight to Athens.  With a scheduled departure at 7:15 p.m., there was plenty of time to reach the gate in the international terminal.  Although not particularly hungry, I did buy a slice of pizza prior to boarding in anticipation of being disappointed with both the quantity and quality of airline food.

    Although dreading another long, this time nine-hour, flight, at least the plane was on time.  Upon reaching my window seat I was pleasantly surprised to see the middle space unoccupied, allowing the older gentleman next to the aisle and myself extra space.  As he stood up to allow me access, I noticed how carefully he removed the small black bag from beneath his seat.  Distinguished looking, with grey hair and moustache, I thought him dressed too casually to be on a business trip.  Gently returning the bag under the seat, he glanced toward me with a quick smile.  Begging your pardon, but would you by any chance be a member of the military?  Upon replying in the affirmative his eyes lit up as he replied, I thought so.

    This marked the beginning of an extraordinary conversation that would last throughout most of the flight.  My curiosity now peaked; I asked the man how he suspected.  I was once as you are, he replied, U.S. Navy.  He continued, seeing as how you are on a direct flight to Athens, would you be reporting for duty at a base in Greece? 

    You are now two for two, I answered, are you willing to make a third guess?

    Well, the gentleman responded, perhaps if you gave me a clue, such as which branch of the military, then I could try for the base. 

    I told him it was the Air Force.  Well then, he answered, could it be the Air Force Base at Iraklion on the island of Crete?’  Upon seeing the puzzled look on my face, he quickly added before I could reply, my mistake, I forgot that they closed that base some years ago.  Could you be heading for the Naval Base at Souda Bay, Crete?  I heard that the Navy and Air Force now conduct joint operations there."  Before I could answer the fasten seat belt sign flashed on and the pilot announced it was time to turn our attention to the flight attendants as they went over the safety procedures.

    After the presentation concluded I returned to the prior conversation.  Informing my travel companion that he was correct, I then inquired how he knew so much about the military base on Crete and if he had spent any time there.  His reply heightened my curiosity. 

    Many years ago, I was stationed at Souda Bay.  Used to know the island of Crete like the back of my hand.  The fifteen months spent there was arguably the most memorable of my life.

    He went on to ask me if I had ever been overseas before and how long had I been in the service?  As the captain announced that we were cleared for takeoff, I replied, no, this is my first time outside of the States.  Prior to this I spent two years at Edwards. 

Ah, California.  Well you will find the climate familiar then.  Mediterranean. Hot dry summers and cool wet winters.  As he concluded these remarks my attention briefly turned to the window as our plane slowly left the earth.  After ascending above the clouds, for it had begun to rain late that afternoon, the pilot turned toward the northeast, and I could see the last breath of light in the western sky.

    The sunset past, I turned back toward the gentleman and stated that any information he could share with me about Crete would be greatly appreciated. 

    Well, how much do you know about the island? 

    Very little about Crete itself, I replied, except that it is one of the largest and most southern of the Greek isles.  However, my grandfather and I would read and discuss Homer’s books, therefore I know more about the ancient history of Greece than the geography or current society.

    So, which was your favorite, the Iliad or the Odyssey? 

    When I declared that it was the Odyssey, he responded, me too. 

    For the next several minutes my new acquaintance listened attentively as I went on about how much influence my grandfather’s stories, as well as the legends of Homeric Greece, had on my decision to leave home and see more of the world.  My concluding thought was how magical it must be to visit a country with a history stretching back 3,000 years to the time of Agamemnon and Achilles. 

    True, the gentleman responded, however, where you are going has a history much older than the Mycenean culture.  Have you ever heard of the Minoans? 

    After some hesitation I answered in the affirmative but added that my knowledge was limited to little more than name recognition.

    My education thus began.  During the next ten minutes it was my turn to listen attentively.  The gentleman went on to explain that the Minoan civilization, the oldest in Europe, predated the Myceneans by a thousand years.  They were a seagoing people who traded with the pharaohs of ancient Egypt, developed a written alphabet and built magnificent palace cities, the most famous of which, Knossos, was as great an archeological find as Troy or Machu Picchu. 

    The island was full of historical ruins, quite mountainous and inhabited by fiercely independent people.  He began stating some of his favorite places (the beach at Matala, Gouverneto Monastery and nearby Arkoudospilios Cave, the Samarian Gorge and the ruins at Zakros) before suddenly stopping and, looking at me quizzically, asked, did you say you loved listening to your grandfather’s stories? 

    I certainly did. 

    Well, he replied, we’re stuck together on this long flight and if you would like, I will tell you all about Crete through the story of my own time and experiences on the island. 

    I believe I would enjoy that, was my response.  And the gentleman began his tale.

Two:  A Fortunate Turn of Events

    It was plain luck that brought me to Crete.  I joined the Navy shortly after High School, during the early years of the Reagan Administration.  The Cold War was still raging then, and like most young men, my first permanent duty was aboard a ship.  However, after two and a half years it was being decommissioned, so there was an opportunity to get a transfer.  In those days, most sailors needed to complete at least three years of sea duty, which, unless one re-enlisted, meant that your entire four years would not include shore duty on a base in the States.  However, there was one way to avoid being sent to another ship and that was to get stationed at an overseas base. 

    Several months prior to my scheduled departure from the ship I was able to contact my detailer in Washington D.C.  He told me that a position had just opened at Souda Bay.  At first, I thought he must be talking about the base at Subic Bay in the Philippines, for I had never heard of Souda Bay. 

    It’s the best kept secret in the Navy, he replied, less than 200 personnel are stationed there. 

    I asked if it would be possible to call him back, for I wanted to investigate this further.

    Don’t take too long, he cautioned, because this may not be available in another week.

    Fortunately, we had a Master Chief onboard who had served nearly thirty years and been practically everywhere the Navy operated.  Upon Inquiring about Souda Bay his eyes lit up and he responded exactly as the detailer had. 

    It is the best kept secret in the Navy, he claimed, further adding, the main job at the base is supplying the fleet when it operates in the eastern Mediterranean.  When there are no ships in the area you will have plenty of time to check out the Greek Islands and they are beautiful.  You would be a fool not to take the assignment. 

    Within five minutes I was back on the phone to Washington, telling the detailer I would accept the assignment.

    On a cold, rainy evening, much like tonight, I flew out of Kennedy.  It was February and, in order to fulfill my enlistment, I would be spending the next 15 months in Greece.  By early afternoon of the following day I reported for duty at the base.  Since it was the weekend the duty officer took a copy of my orders, welcomed me onboard, and had me assigned to a room in the barracks.

    Radioman Third-Class Brian Simmons was lying on his bunk as I lugged my sea bag and suitcase through the door.  He was reading, for probably the tenth time, the most recent letter from his girlfriend back in Arkansas.  Small of stature and quick with a smile, I would enjoy his company for the next six months.

    After Brian finished his letter and I stowed my gear, he volunteered to show me around the base.  At that time the Naval Support Facility consisted of less than two dozen structures, the most significant being a two-story building that housed the mess hall and office used by duty personnel on the first deck, as well as a small store and enlisted man’s club on the upper level.  Brian pointed out that the small office, called the quarterdeck, was where I would probably stand duty. 

    Being a second-class, you should be assigned as Petty Officer of the Watch, he explained.  It is a four-hour shift and usually comes around every 10 or 12 days.  Every first class and above serve as Command Duty Officer, with the most junior third-class Petty Officers and below standing in as duty drivers.  In the office is the international phone line, which connects us to the outside world and must be manned twenty-four-seven. 

    On Monday I would discover that Brian was correct in his assumption that I would stand Petty Officer of the Watch.

    Our next stop was the radio shack where he worked, followed by the Supply Department building and compound where I would report for duty the next morning. 

    You guys in supply can be quite busy when the planes are flying, Brian stated, after all that is the primary purpose of our mission. 

    The supply compound was located near the end of one of the numerous runways, for the Greek airbase was quite large and the U.S. operated on just a small, remote corner.  Not far away was the hanger bay where the Operations Department assisted with the incoming and outgoing aircraft.  The logistics of our base, I later learned, was that the larger C-130s would fly in supplies and mail headed for the fleet from bases in Spain, Italy or Germany and we would then re-load the smaller C-2 airplanes that flew out to the carriers.

    The tour continued around our small base, passing by the administration building, small post office, various barracks, and the shops used by the detachment of Seabees.  Our final stop, before heading back to the room, was at the tennis and basketball courts.  Although still within the rainy season, this day felt like spring, all bright and sunny.  I mention this because from the tennis and basketball courts there are beautiful views of mountains toward the south.  Less than twenty miles away are the 7,000’ peaks of the Lefka Ori, or White Mountains.  Quite often the summits retain snow until May or June.  I never grew tired of the view, which both Brian and I enjoyed during numerous tennis matches for the next six months.

    As we walked back toward our barracks, Brian informed me of my other roommate.  Earlier that day I had noticed a large Confederate Battle Flag pinned to the wall. 

    He’s quite the rebel, Brian stated, adding, but he will have to get use to sharing quarters with a Yankee. 

    Seth McAllister was playing Sweet Home Alabama as we returned to the room.  Born and bred in southern Alabama, near Mobile, he was an Aviation Boatswain’s Mate and worked out of the hanger bay handling aircraft.  Also, a Petty Officer Third Class, both he and Brian had avoided serving aboard ships by being sent to overseas bases for their first permanent duty.  Seth could be quite loud and opinionated, especially when drunk, but was quite harmless.

    So, Brian, we gotta share our room with a Yank, was Seth’s response upon hearing that I hailed from Nebraska. 

    You better watch yourself McAllister, the Yank outranks us, was Brian’s reply. 

    Extending his hand with a wry smile, Seth turned to me exclaiming, "hope you are not offended by Lynyrd Skynyrd." 

    Not at all, was my response.  Unlike Brian, Seth would be my roommate for the duration and, although we never grew close, the relationship was usually cordial.  He drank too much and smoked even more but chose to do the latter outside of our room and, as for the former, at least he never came back from a binge violent.

    The three of us talked for the better part of an hour prior to sharing dinner at the Mess Hall.  Upon learning that I would be working in Supply, Seth did not hesitate to share his feelings about those within my department.  He was arguably most familiar with the Supply Officer, Lieutenant Carter, with whom he shared a love of the bottle.  On many a Friday or Saturday night you could find the two of them, along with several others, soliciting the bars in the town of Chania.  Such was also the case with John Stevens, my equivalent as a Second-Class Petty Officer who, according to Seth, was not good at holding his liquor.  Petty Officer Third-Class Pedro Ramos was a Filipino who spoke poor English, according to Seth, but at least worked, unlike Seaman Dave Wilmer, a poor excuse for a sailor who seemed to always get under Lt. Carter’s skin.  And finally, there was the man who actually ran the department:  Petty Officer First-Class Jacob Young.

    That negro runs the show over there, Seth stated, adding, the lieutenant says he really has his shit together. 

    As I was soon to discover, this time Seth was correct in his assessment.  He went on to add that his boss, Petty Officer First-Class Harry Murray, and Young were best friends. 

    Every chance they get the two of them are off exploring somewhere, Young must think he’s the black Indiana Jones.  Brian just smiled as Seth continued about the failings of those in his own department.  I was glad when it was time to head for the Mess Hall, for Seth would be staying back in the room, claiming he was not hungry.

    That evening was the first of many I shared with Brian Simmons.  Although his was not the closest friendship made during my time at Souda Bay, we did enjoy each other’s company, mostly just around the base.  For Brian was a bit of a loner.  He was very dedicated to Althea, his girlfriend back home in Arkansas and saved nearly every dime for their future marriage.  There were also plans to fly her out to Europe this summer and travel by train to Italy and France.  I, on the other hand, planned to spend both time and money venturing off base whenever the opportunity arose.

    During our early dinner I was introduced to a few other members of our small community.  Brian’s immediate supervisor, Petty Officer First-Class Steven Dillard, was the first to come around our table.  During our brief meeting I had a feeling Steven was quite eccentric.  Brian confirmed this shortly after he departed by relating a couple of stories.  The first concerned his fascination with Medieval Knights.  He belonged to some society that practiced jousting and sword fighting and one evening nearly scared to death a young female yeoman when he ran past her wearing a full suit of armor.  The second story centered around the sale of a goat rug, called flokati in Greek.  Steven had made a deal with a local salesman, known as Flokati Mike, by exchanging his large radio (known back then as a boom box) for one of Mike’s rugs.  Upon bragging about this purchase, Stephen was told that it was illegal to sell or exchange goods purchased on the base to local Greeks.  Scared to face Flokati Mike alone, he begged Brian to go