USS MULLINNIX DD-944
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Istanbul, Turkey 1961
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Excerpt from "The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944"
A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood
1961 Turkey Vistor's Guide (PDF)
Istanbul, "Queen of Cities", born to the Greeks, raised by the Romans, and matured under the Ottomans, was famous for its black sea turbot, sea bass, grouper, kebobs and mussels. It had a legacy of ancient cathedrals, mosques, and palaces. Famous for the richness of its history and the many civilizations that shaped it. Steaming into Istanbul, it reinforces every well-worn cliché about it straddling west and east. Ahead of you lies a powerful, hilly, city, set across two seas and two continents, and this feeling never really leaves you as you walk its streets, hear its sounds, see its sights.
Istanbul, historically known as Constantinople and Byzantium, is the most populous city in Turkey and the country's economic, cultural, and historic center. It is a transcontinental city in Eurasia, straddling the Bosphorus. The city is further divided by the Golden Horn, a natural harbor bounding the peninsula where the former Byzantium and Constantinople were founded. Its commercial and historical center lies on the European side. The confluence of the Sea of Marmara, the Bosphorus, and the Golden Horn at the heart of present-day Istanbul has deterred attacking forces for thousands of years.
Istanbul's persistently high humidity reaches 80 percent most mornings. Because of this, fog is very common. Dense fog disrupts transportation in the region, including on the Bosphorus, and is common during the autumn and winter months when the humidity remains high into the afternoon.
Istanbul is primarily known for its Byzantine and Ottoman architecture, but its buildings reflect the various peoples and empires that have previously ruled the city. Examples of Genoese and Roman architecture remain visible in Istanbul alongside their Ottoman counterparts. Nothing of the architecture of the classical Greek period has survived, but Roman architecture has proved to be more durable. The obelisk erected by Theodosius in the Hippodrome of Constantinople is still visible in Sultanahmet Square, and a section of the Valens Aqueduct, constructed in the late 4th century, stands relatively intact at the western edge of the Fatih district. The Column of Constantine, erected in 330 AD to mark the new Roman capital, stands not far from the Hippodrome.
The crew enjoyed local recipes such as fried eggs with yoghurt and chili, parlicky aubergine dishes and honey-drenched puddings. It was a city that catered to every taste, whether casual, bustling canteens, formal Ottoman-style restaurants, mouthwatering street concoctions or high-end cooking in slick, modern spaces. Local ingredients such as globe artichokes, samphire, courgettes, beets, fontina, and black truffles were common in many dishes.
Next to the inky-blue waters of the harbor, vendors sold cheddar, diced cucumber and tomatoes; bowls of olives; salamis and sour cherry jam, simit bread, rings of bagel-like dough encrusted with toasted sesame seeds - crisp and chewy, still warm from the oven; and dollops of the creamiest, sweetest clotted cream anyone had ever seen.
Smythe and McGee ambled through the blossom-lined, cobbled streets, passing the Blue Mosque. The Sultan Ahmed Mosque or Sultan Ahmet Mosque was a historic mosque located in Istanbul. It was constructed between 1609 and 1616 during the rule of Ahmed I. Its Külliye contains Ahmed's tomb, a madrasah and a hospice. Hand-painted blue tiles adorn the mosque's interior walls, and at night the mosque is bathed in blue as lights frame the mosque’s five main domes, six minarets and eight secondary domes, hence the nick name.
The smells of toasted chestnuts and grilled corn waft through the spring, maritime air.
"That smells like fucking barbecue!" McGee said, instantly realizing he'd skipped breakfast.
What, in fact it was, was grilled diced intestines chopped with tomatoes, oregano, and peppers. The intestinal-mix was sauteed in oil, packed into a crusty baguette and sprinkled with lightly spiced chili flakes called kirmizi biber.
Smythe had actually take the time to read the literature that was available on the ship. He knew exactly what it was. Smiling a shit-eating-grin, "smells like chicken," he offered.
There were street stalls selling juicy looking meatballs served with fresh salads of grated carrots, sweet tomatoes, lettuce and cabbage. Also, there were vendors with freshly squeezed pomegranate juice.
Another street food treat that the Muxmen found was "Iskender", named after Alexander the Great, a diced kebab served up over cubes of flatbread, cooked in a tomato sauce topped with a garlicky yoghurt; stuffed mussels; and fried mussel sandwiches. This quick meal was available on every street corner.
While the crew shopped in old town for dried fruits, nuts, sumac and Turkish Delight in the colorful spice market, they sampled slow-cooked lamb stuffed in vine leaves with chili sauce and sour cream, roast aubergine in tahini-miso dressing, soft braised beef ribs topped with a light gremolata on Turkish noodles in yoghurt sauce, and creamy ice creams (mulberry, raspberry, pistachio and chocolate); spinach and cheese pies called borek. Everywhere they turned, vendors sold rounds of simit bread. Most stayed away from the fried sardine sandwiches under the Galata bridge.
Raki was the local liquor. an unsweetened, occasionally anise-flavored, alcoholic drink. It was similar to several other alcoholic beverages available around the Mediterranean and the Middle East - like Ouzo. In Turkey and Greece, Raki is considered a national drink. Many of the crew remembered their own personal 'slow death by ouzo' while in Greece. But Raki would put a smile on your face within moments of passing your lips. Smythe and McGee were living proof.
At night, they explored Istiklal Caddesi, a long pedestrian street lined with high-street chains and cheap eateries. The Turks love their street life and had a seemingly boundless energy and a natural appetite for socializing.
_______________
He was so skinny he could wear a red tie and look like a thermometer. A man of medium height, with dark hair, and eyes the blue of his dungarees. His dungarees were washed so thin they looked like cheesecloth. He had a thin, clean-shaven, foxlike face with prominent cheekbones and a knife-edged Adam's apple that bobbed up and down between his navy collar and his small, pointed chin. A pair of circular, wire-framed glasses perched on that hooked, wide-nostriled nose, made him look Sherlock Holmesing.
His skin was worn down to the bones, a man so gaunt he almost disappeared inside his uniform. He passed his hand over his face, a hand utterly exhausted by growing old before its time. Old is not mere age, it’s when memories exceed dreams.
They called him Willie. Nobody knew why, nobody seemed to know his civilian name. He was brought up by an aunt in Georgia, his daddy a vacuum cleaner salesman. He had a peckerwood accent and fifth-grade education. If he wasn't eating Vienna-sausage-and-mayonnaise sandwiches, he was dunking everything else in obscene amounts of ketchup.
He had a minus sign in front of his IQ, testimony that we all didn't descent from the same tree. His mother may have been inseminated by leakage from a colostomy bag.
He'd lost a son in New Orleans, a victim of a random shooting. A finger on USS Lowry DD-770, and his wife to his former best friend. Sometimes you have to lose something to appreciate what you had. But not knowing what's right is different than not knowing. Willie didn't know.
After Korea, he had spent most of the fifties drunk, going through jobs, pain, a wife, a couple of houses, the patience of his friends, the respect of his buddies, almost pulling the trigger on his sorry self a dozen times. Then, somehow he beat it, giving everything up. He couldn't take the world. He couldn't take the memories. He had to leave both. So he left the Army and joined the Navy, living among sailors, at sea, an exile, staying in faraway ports as often and as long as possible, trying somehow to recover what he had lost.
He viewed his youth as if it'd been part of some other man's life.
He coughed. The breath from his ruined lungs grated shrilly, like chalk on a blackboard. He'd pick up the 'nameless dread' in Norfolk almost a year ago. The heroin had leached every nutrient from his bloodstream. He felt faint. His brain thudded with the rhythms from nearby dance bars. He felt like he could vomit. The swelling of the tracks on his arm was still noticeable; the discoloration was worthy of an artist's palette.
He coughed again. He wondered if his mother ever understood the irony of her calling him a son of a bitch.
He was desperately thirsty. Thirsty for what? For whom? His brain itched with frustration. Lost in a nightmare-world that all too often shared his real one. Willie rubbed his face. Its surface felt like an old automobile tire. Sweat leaked out of his eyebrows, His eyes had turned almost gray - the color of water beneath a sky from which snow will soon fall.
_______________
The early morning haze of fog and road dust hung in a flat cloud above the oily water of the harbor. The farther into town they walked, a thick, damp curtain hung dismally in the air, almost obliterating the buildings.
"Follow me, I know a place," said McGee
"Follow you? In this fog? I couldn't follow you if we were in the same rowboat and your ass was on fire!"
The cloud, now settling, was as dense as any they'd seen. Gray whirlpools of vapor descended, condensed, then re-formed as moonlit veils. Water droplets created curtains of pearls, so their visibility fluctuated. Each drifting cloud added to the illusion that the buildings were moving, not the shipmates, not the fog - the buildings.
White tendrils began creeping along the ground toward them, like tentacles out to garb their legs and pull them away somewhere. It was spooky. It was the first time any of them had seen fog actually move in and occupy territory, and it was a weird experience. It resembled some kind of creature, but a cat wasn't even in the running. More like Steve McQueen's Blob.
"Where the fuck is this place anyway, McGee?"
"Can't be far."
They came up an alley like walkway called Bagdat. The halos of the street lights looked like giant moons. The narrow alley was full of bouncers, barkeeps, hostesses, musicians, cops, and hash dealers. With the fog, the trees looked like shadows between low-drooping canyons that swayed like giant, green jellyfish.
They stepped over a reeking pile of feces.
"Why you walking like that?" ask McGee.
"I woke up with a zoo in my pants. I need to get some more of the crab-cream from the doc," answered Smythe.
The night thickened around them like smoke.
Pointing through the fog, "There the sonofabitch is," announced McGee.
"Bout fucking time," said Smythe.
The Sultan Pub. The door was open, light pouring out onto the wet pavement. Smythe chucked his cigarette away, skidding it across the ground past a sleeping shoeshine boy.
The place was full of a loud giddy whirl of thieves, hustlers, quacks, clowns, and philistines. They sat on mustard-colored vinyl chairs and looked around the room. Smythe stared blankly at a cheap painting of 3 seagulls on a white beach.
"That bird in the middle looks like it's taking a dump," Smythe said.
McGee ordered them two gins - doubles.
The air smelled of alcohol and urine and the acrid smoke of cigarillos. The bartender's face was filthy. His clothes were torn. His hair was matted to the density of old carpet. But his eyes were bright. He grinned a black-toothed smile. As he moved, waves of stink moved with him - like rotting flesh.
McGee opened a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Smythe. He took it, stuck it in his mouth, and waited until McGee shook one out for himself and fired up his Zippo. Smythe inhaled and fought back a wave of nausea. The gin slid down inside him like an icicle starting to melt.
The Sultan offered attractive girls for Turkey standards, the purest opium, and a roulette wheel spun by a croupier who knew his business. It didn't take long for a pimp to approach the two shipmates.
"Say, sailor, looking for a good time?"
They looked him over. Middle-aged, with very few teeth and ragged clothes. No longer the violent sort but perfectly willing to deliver you to those who were.
"Want to meet girls? Want to see deranged addicts in an opium den?"
Everything, it appeared, was for sale.
_______________
Nausea clutched his belly as though he'd been punched. It hit the back of Willie's throat and gushed into his cheeks. He stumbled through the alley, pushing people out of the way, and made it to the tree stump with barely a second to spare. Bright red vomit projectiled and sprayed over the ground. Little white lights danced behind his eyes.
He stepped gingerly and with a sick stomach over a rivulet of water running in the gutter, pushing the carcass of a dead rat downhill toward the sea.
_______________
"This place sucks a big one."
"Want to leave?" asked McGee.
Downing the last of his gin, "Yeah, let's blow this place. Go someplace else," said Smythe.
"We need to find a cheap beer garden," added McGee.
Sailors were always looking for 'cheap' and 'beer'. Throw in a garden for extra measure and it was the perfect place to get bagged.
They were navigating the never-ending maze of winding streets, alleys, and passageways looking for their next garden of Eden when they saw something. They found him in a dead-end alley, draped over a smashed steel drum.
Running, they hardly recognized Willie with the deep lines round his eyes and a few first grey hairs. When had he got so old?
"You lose any more weight and I'm going to have trouble finding you, Willie", said Smythe, thinking he was just drunk.
"Man, he's some kind of fucked up", added McGee. "Look at his fucking arms."
His arms had scabs were the needle-holes were having trouble heeling faster than he was shooting up.
"Willie, man. Wake up. What the fucks wrong with you," said Smythe, as he tried to shake him awake.
Willie's eyes fluttered, fluttered some more, then opened slightly, one more so than the other.
Willie thought about nodding, but was afraid his head would fall off. He felt as if he had been road hard and put up wet, and then shot for having bad ankles. McGee gave him a drink of water. It was the best water he had ever had.
Smythe just couldn't get over how bad Willie looked. He looked and smelled like a street bum. They were shipmates. But here was a sad-eyed man who looked as if he were permanently stationed in the outskirts of regret.
"How does something like this happened?" wondered Smythe.
"His heart was dead long before he came on board," offered McGee. "Some guys...some guys just have stuff that takes them down. Way down. He was just one of those guys."
Using McGee's first name, "What's that supposed to mean Howard?" asked Smythe. "He's our shipmate. Shouldn't we have known something was wrong?"
"He's just one of those guys - a loner," offered McGee. "A bit weird."
"Hell, McGee, we are all fucking weird. That doesn't explain it. We live, eat, and work with this guy. We should have known...something wasn't right."
"Maybe."
"Maybe? Shit!"
When overseas on liberty, and in situations like this, your options are limited. They couldn't leave Willie there. Some asshole may try to roll him, or worse. After arguing some more, the pair decided to find the shore patrol.
"I'll stay with him," offered Smythe.
"OK. The shore patrol can't be that hard to fine. Hell, when you don't need them, you see them all over the fucking place," McGee said.
McGee headed towards the entrance of the alley and turned left.
"Willie? Willie, man, you OK?" asked Smythe. All Willie could do was mumble something incoherent. "Willie, what happened? What have you done?"
Maybe you always count the cost of what you've lost more than what you still have, Smythe thought. We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why. Not until the future eats the present away. Then, you know when it's too late.
"Umf..." Willie mumbled.
"Willie. Willie. It's me, Smythe. You going to be OK. McGee went to get some help."
Twisting his mouth into a snarl-like look, "Smythe? That you?"
"Yea, Willie, it's me."
"What...happened? Where're we at?"
Smythe could tell he was only half lucid. "Istanbul. Fucking Istanbul, Turkey. Don't you remember?"
Willie slipped back into unconscious. Smythe thought he was going to puke right then and there. This shit shouldn't be happening. Liberty was for having fun, being stupid, getting drunk, getting laid. Not this kind of shit - no way.
Smythe heard a noise and turned. It was McGee returning with the shore patrol. Yes, shore patrol where supposed to keep sailors for becoming to rowdy. But when a sailor was in need, their other duty was to bring aid and insure their safety.
"How is he?" asked McGee.
"About the same, although he woke up a couple minutes ago.
Smythe stood. "Fellas, I think we may need a doctor or something."
The first-class machinist said, "We've already made the call. McGee here filled us in on the way over here."
"You guys from the Mullinnix?" asked the second shore patrol sailor.
"Yea, we are."
"Heard it's a pretty good ship."
"Could be worse," offered Smythe. "Pretty close crew. That's why this shit is so disturbing."
"This kind of thing seems to happen more when we are in ports in this part of the world," offered the first-class machinist. "Sad, I know. But, we'll get him the medical attention he needs and let your CO know what's going on. You guys headed back to Mullinnix?"
Looking at McGee, "Probably, this just kicked the shit out of any night we had planned. Right McGee?"
"Agreed."
A jeep pulled up to the entrance of the alley with two additional shore patrol. They managed to get Willie to his feet and half-dragged, half-helped him towards the jeep.
Tears slipped down Smythe's cheeks. He was not crying alone.
As they passed through the streets, the mysterious smells of the city thickened in the warm air.
To be continued...
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