RETURN TO GLORY

On March 10th 1944 close to midnight, a British naval landing craft, running without any lights, was quietly approaching the northern coast of Greece, the rumble of its engines barely audible. Greece, like the rest of Europe, was under the complete control of the German armies. The swastika was flying high on the Acropolis having soiled the holy ground with its presence.

I stood portside, bracing myself against the cold March air trying vainly to catch a glimpse of the shoreline. Salt spray splashed against my face, reminding me that six years before when I was fourteen years old, my family sailed from the port of Patras, Greece for America. My father had taken his family of four out of Europe knowing that war was imminent. Here I was returning to the land of my birth as a warrior.

Suddenly, I could make out the shoreline although I could see no lights anywhere. Only the rocky mountain cliffs, which seemed to fall abruptly into the sea, were barely visible.

To starboard, I could see Seras, Drake and Pirpos, who like me, were dressed in dark green battle uniforms with their weapons at the ready. We were part of a twenty one man OSS Commando Unit on its first mission made up of all Greek American volunteers with varying degrees of proficiency in spoken Greek.

After vigorous training by American and French officers at the Congressional Country Club in Maryland, we had boarded a convoy at Charleston heading for Egypt. After having received parachute training from the British in Palestine, we were flown to Brindisi, Italy.

After a speech by a British Colonel, who admonished us not to get involved in local politics, we embarked on the British vessel. "Be ready at all times," he said. "Our mission is to fight the Germans and not take sides in Greek politics."

His statement took us by surprise. Greek politics, what did he mean?

A light appeared off the port quarter. It was a small fishing boat. An officer on the bridge shouted in Greek, heavy with an English accent, "Kalispera. Are there any Germans around?"

"None here," came the throaty reply.

The English officer shouted his thanks as the fisherman's boat slowly disappeared astern. The ship continued its slow progress toward the coast, which was becoming increasingly visible.

Most of the men in our unit were quite young. I was nineteen and had completed high school at Miami, Florida when I was drafted into the army. The others had similar backgrounds. Some were born in Greece and others were native born Americans of Greek parents. I was so glad that my parents had no idea where I was. If they knew, my mother would have a heart attack.

"Well sergeant, let's get the men ready." Captain Velis's mid-Western twang brought me to the present. The captain was twenty-five years old, about 5' 7" and a little thicker around the middle than the rest of us. He was a ninety-day wonder, as the reserve officers were labeled. I looked down on him, my being 6'3" tall, as I said, "Do you realize sir, that we are the first American soldiers to step on Greek soil?"

"Yes, and we must be ready,." the captain replied quite seriously. "We are to be met ashore by friendly forces, and should be landing soon. Get the men ready and tell them we don't know what is expecting us ashore."

"Maybe the Greeks will have a band for us." I told him smiling.

The captain smiled broadly and replied, "Let's hope it's not the Germans who bid us welcome."

We were nearing the shore now. Only a few yards away, a rocky cliff jutted skyward. As the ship rounded the cliff, I heard Bill Seras's grating voice exclaim, "Well, I'll be a son of a bitch."

Soon, we could all see a tremendous bonfire on the beach, hidden by the protruding cliff. The fire illuminated the entire area, showing us many rough looking men, most with long beards, all heavily armed, bandoleers crisscrossed on their chests and shoulders. Hundreds of mules and packhorses extended in a line all the way up a hill from the beach.

The ship came slowly to a grinding stop, its bow scraping onto the beach, which immediately fell open. Our unit was the first to come ashore, guns at the ready. We were quickly surrounded by the guerrillas, called 'andartes' in Greek, hugging us and asking all kind of questions, obviously thirsty for news.

A Greek major pushed his way through the crowd, came up to us and in perfect French asked, "Qui parle Francais ici." I understood and answered him in Greek. "We are Greek Americans. Speak to us in Greek."

Cheers erupted among the andartes. The major had tears in his eyes as he embraced us. "We never expected to see Americans in Greece, certainly not Americans speaking Greek."

It was a very emotional scene. Some of us were returning to the land of our birth, with the American flag displayed on our arm patches. I could not help but think of how many invaders had occupied this land, all who had left defeated both morally and physically.

Captain Velis' shouts snapped me out of my reverie. He was supervising the unloading of our supplies from the ship. The andartes had formed a line from shore to the vessel, passing boxes ashore. Immediately the boxes were loaded on mules and taken up on the hill. When all of our supplies had been loaded, we gathered on top of the hill where we were met by the major and another young officer.

"This is Lieutenant Lambros," the major told us. "He will be your guide so please follow his instructions."

"Where are the Germans, Major?" Corporal Seras asked in his cobblestone voice.

"Not too far from here, I am afraid," the major retorted. "However there is no immediate danger. But we must move quickly. You see we have all accesses blocked, but I cannot guarantee for how long. We must cross the main highway tonight and be high up in the mountains by daylight."