USS MULLINNIX DD-944

Mitilini Greece 1959




Excerpt from "The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944"
A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood


Mitilini is located on Lesvos, Greece's third largest island, has a long history and varied, fascinating scenery. The birthplace of the illustrious ancient poets Sappho and Alkaios, the guitarist Arion, the musician Terpander and Pittakos of Mitilini, one of the Seven Sages of antiquity. The Mayor of Mitilini came on board at 1710 to make an official call on COMDESRON 32. Shortly after, the Lt Colonel of the Greek Genderme made an official call as well.

Like other great Greek cities, Mytilini is built upon seven hills and is full of history. Museums full of interesting remnants of the last three thousand years and the town itself contains monuments, houses, churches, schools and other buildings from various historical periods. But it was the current day Mytilini that held the most interest for many of the sailors because it is a small and friendly city full of great restaurants, cafes, and nightlife.

When they arrived by liberty boat at 0700 it was quiet. The city spreading from the large harbor up into the hills behind it and was crowned by an enormous castle whose foundations were laid during the time of Justinian on the ruins of an even more ancient fortification. The castle was surrounded by a pine forest that reached down to the shore and the public beach.

The waterfront came alive with traffic at 0800 and stayed that way until just after 1300 when the stores closed and everyone went home for lunch and siesta. By early evening the city was alive again with activity. The main street was lined with cafes. The city was a maze of small streets that defied the sailors to find their way out once they have ventured in too deeply.

It was in Mitilini where the crew was introduced to, and fell in love with Greek cheese. Not just anthotiros, feta, or formaella of parnassos. But the famous Ladotiri of Mitilini – a traditional Greek cheese manufactured exclusively on Mitilini island from ewe's milk or mixture of ewe and goat's milk. It’s ripened for a minimum of 3 months and is known by the name of Kefalaki (small head) due to its particular shape. The main characteristic of this traditional cheese is that is preserved in olive oil, hence the name - Ladotiri (ladi=olive oil, tiri=cheese). It has strong flavor, hard texture with a slightly salty taste that warrants being washed down with copious quantities of Ouzo.

But their favorite places in the city were the cafeneons and ouzeries that were hidden on back streets where afternoon parties were spontaneous and common. They found a common custom was to be bought a drink by a local at the next table and then being asked to join the party. Was this heaven or what? Fueled by ouzo, lunch could last until early evening and the people, who hours before were strangers at the next table, became like blood brothers. As in any town or city in Greece, it wasn’t the buildings or the scenery that made the place special, it was its people.

Ouzo drinking is an art, or a way of life if you live here. Most people in Greece will admit that the best ouzo comes from Mitilini, brands like Mini or Plomari our famous. But it's not the ouzo itself, it's who you drink it with that really makes the experience. Many Muxmen were learning to become artist by spending a lot of time drinking ouzo, talking and eating with their new friends. So much so, that when it was time to leave this heavenly oasis, many seriously consider becoming members of AA. Others didn't - as many bottles of this licorice flavored liquor were smuggled aboard ship and stashed away in any nook or cranny that a bottle would fit in.

The key to drinking ouzo is to eat snacks known as mezedes. Mezedes or meze are small plates of food served with ouzo since in Greece it is customary to eat while you drink. Ouzo is never served without mezedes. Ouzo's cousins raki, tsipouro and tsikoudia, which are similar in spirit but without the anise-licorice taste, were also served with meze which softened the effects of the powerful drink and enable the sailors to drink and talk for hours rather than getting drunk and incoherent. You could sit and drink slowly for hours in a profoundly calm state of mind where all is beautiful and life is fine. That is if you remember to eat mezedes. If you don’t, incoherency becomes the plan of the day.

There is a reason why the Navy's botswain's mates are called 'deck apes'. Their duty is often demanding, difficult and sometimes grueling compared to most work standards. Deck apes are a very proud sort of Naval Personnel that work hard, play harder and love the traditional naval standard the designated them apes. Nobody had bothered to tell these apes they should be eating a few mezedes with their ouzo.

"Let's go find some women."” Words mauled by an afternoon of ouzo. Words laced with anise-soaked smoke from a chewed-up half-dead cigarette hanging from the lips of BM2 Jonathan Sebastian.

"I'm for that. If I keep drinkin' this shit, I'll be dead before sundown," answered BM1 Walter Sheffield.

The two performed a decent imitation of walking as they left the little ouzery on a shady lazy street not far from one of the ancient fishing piers. They spotted an old fisherman patching his fishing nets near the pier. His name was Tassos. He had the bald dented head and liver-spotted hands of an old man. But his eyes were clear and bright. Tassos sported a beard, smoked self-rolled tobacco and spoke reasonable English. As Sebastian and Sheffield didn't have the ability to understand proper English in their current state, the conversation flowed like cheap syrup on a hot afternoon.

"How's fishin'," questioned Sheffield. He was worse than the 1MC, the way he talked. His flush round face sat top of his dress whites like a tomato on a plate.

"Good, good for this time of year," Tassos came back with a tired smile. His speech wound down like a dying engine. His long eyes relaxed into the monochromatic landscape where the sky blended with the sea.

"We're fishin' to. But not for fish," offered Sebastian. He had hawk's eyes and a mouth that always looked hungry. His body looked like it had been assembled from a box of discarded spare parts - square shoulders, flat chest, torso too long for his legs, small head.

Tassos looked up with a quizzical look on his sun-lined face, while he captured the front of a mustache in his lower lip and thought. Seagulls chirped like angry lovers overhead.

"Women. Know where to find any?" asked Sheffield.

Tassos flicked his smoke into the world's largest butt can. Running the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, tasting the salt spray, "What kind?"

"Come on Tassos. You know - money ladies. Ladies of the evening. Whores, man!" explained Sebastian. To Sebastian, women were like candy, one wasn't enough. If he wasn't in a cat house he was in the dog house. They called him Monk, short for Monkey-sex.

There is a broad gulf between the man of talent and the man of genius. Sheffield had neither. He was in the middle of the gulf. "Yea, Whores that love sailors. Whores that love to drink and fuck."

To say 'Sheff' was a drinker was an understatement. Within two hours of a typical liberty call he couldn't recognize his own hands.

Smiling, "You know street you just come from?"

The pair nodded.

"Go back to corner with big olive tree. Go down little road to next street. You find what you want." Explained Tassos.

"Thanks Tassos! You’re a buddy and our newest Greek friend." Said Monk, handing him a Mullinnix Zippo.

Tassos lit another cigarette, flipped his new lighter shut and said, "You my friends too." He blew a big smoke ring and then a little one straight through it as the sea-breeze stole both out to sea.

The pair headed back to the way they'd come.

"I'm ready for the hambone boogey," shouted Monk, "You ready?"

"I'm always ready, just like boiled ham," answered Sheff.

They found the olive tree, turned right, and kept walking.

"Hold up, I've got to take a leak," announced Monk.

Monk walked over to three olive trees who's trunks had intertwined. The appearance was of one giant swollen gnarly trunk. Urine splashed against the trunks, running into multiple rivulets joining again into a growing yellow pool of piss in the dirt.

"Shore patrol catch you doing that, they'll tie your dick in a knot," warned Sheff.

"You're a funny man Sheffield," said Monk.

"You're an asshole," answered Sheff.

"What's your point?" laughed Monk.

Looking up the narrow street, "Let's stop in there and get a quick drink," decided Sheff.

The place was open fronted. In the back were four country Greek tables surrounded by time-worn mismatched chairs, most with four legs. Narrow stripes of light filtered in between slats in the brown ceiling. They noticed the three long ceiling beams and the wooden elements of the plaster walls when they walked in. The floor was paved with broken slabs. There was a body standing in the shadows behind what was passing for a bar.

"You got a cold beer in this place?"

"Yes I do my friends." He had a Lucky Strike stuck in the corner of his mouth and smoked as he talked, blowing out smoke with each phrase and squinting his right eye against the blue smoke curling up from the tip of the cigarette.

The bar was being threatened by an attack of giant jasmine bushes in full bloom. The smell was sickening sweet.

"Two beers. Preferably cold."

"Yes", answered the man. He was short and powerfully built, his stockiness emphasized by the thick dark-blue fisherman's heresy, intricately patterned. Beneath it he wore corduroy trousers tucked into black rubber sea-boots. He was dark, with a long, strong-featured face, curly disheveled hair and short beard, his eyes narrow under a creased brow, the irises a clear sapphire blue against his sun burnt skin.

Placing the two room temperature beers on the sticky bar, the man asked, "where are you headed my friends?"

"Looking for women of course", answered Monk. "Our friend Tassos pointed us in this direction."

"Tassos? You know Tassos."

"Yes sir, we’re buddies," said Sheffield.

"He my friend to," responded the man. "Tassos and I fish together for many many years. My name is Nicholi."

"So, are we headed in the right direction?" asked Monk.

"Direction?"

"Yea man. Women! Which direction? We headed right?"

Smiling, "Maybe you like gypsy women?" Very fine, these women."

"Hell yes! Sounds like our type. Right Monk?"

"That's a big 10/4! Which way to the gypsies Nicholi?" questioned Monk.

"Keeping following this road," finger pointing in the direction the pair were headed. "It will turn to the right into the low hills. Keep following. You will see a large olive tree."

Interrupting, Monk confessed, "Yea, I just pissed on one."

Continuing, "at the large tree, turn left. Continue for about 10 minutes, and turn left again. They have a cantina there and their camp is not far behind it."

The two pounded down a couple more beers, paid and thanked Nicholi for the directions saying they'd catch him later, and headed out the door.

Looking up the road Monk announced, "There's women up in them there hills!"

"Fuck off!"

To be Roma, or "gypsy," is to be a member of an ethnic minority that is difficult to define. Diverse, nomadic, throughout their history, the Roma have been comprised of many different groups of people, absorbing outsiders and other cultures while migrating across continents. This has resulted in creating a patchwork of groups calling themselves Roma, each with differing cultures, customs, and written languages.

Despite their differences, gypsies share certain attributes. Made up of four "tribes," or nations (natsiya), they are bound together through Rom blood and Romani (or Romanes), the root language they share. They are extremely loyal to family and clan; a strong belief in both Del (God) and Beng (devil); belief in pre-destiny; and Romaniya, a loose set of standards and code of conduct. At their core, because of their history, they are a people who are adaptable to changing conditions.

The pair found what they thought to be the olive tree that Nicholi was talking about. A small cemetery with time-worn markers was fifty feet behind it, darkened by the large tree's shade and fading light.

"He say anything about a cemetery?" asked Monk.

"No," said Sheffield. "Just turn left and walk about ten minutes. Let’s go."

They had never heard Romani before, but they heard it loud and slithering between the trees heading to their ears. The words seemed hard and sing-songy at the same time. The road bent slightly to the right, around a thicket of pomegranate trees. As the pair navigated the bend, a band of gypsy youth greeted them with loud cheering and laughing.

"Be careful Monk, those little bastards learned to pick sailor's pockets before they could walk," warned Sheffield.

Ignoring Sheffield, Monk handed the youth a few coins he'd received from Nicholi in change. They ran off as quickly as they'd appeared, yelling and screaming.

Up ahead stood a structure that just had to be the cantina Nicholi told them about. A wretched box of a building on this desolate stretch of road, whose ocher paint had dulled to the color of bracken from the weather. The windows were so dirty they were opaque and the building listed from dry rot. Only the desolation of bar and sailor alike would tempt one to join the other.

As they approached, the strong spicy basil flavor of the Greek mini yevani bush rose to attack their senses.

"What the fuck is that smell?" Sheffield asked.

Monk sniffed the air while glancing down at the ground. A giant pile of human shit, curled up like a fat dead snake, lay a couple feet away.

"Shit," answered Monk, "Look."

"Well, if that doesn't make you want to shit in your flat hat," offered Sheffield.

"Come on, let's go shit-weed, were wasting time," said Monk.

"I'll have you know, I've never yet found drinking in a bar to be a waste of time Mr. Sebastian. As a matter of fact, I have discovered that time often stands still while in a bar," Sheffield said.

"Well Mr. Smart-ass, you'll notice we aren't in a bar yet!" Monk replied.

"Screw you. Let's go ass-wipe."

There was no front door, just a shagging frame. The lighting was watery. The tables and chairs could have been washed up from a shipwreck. Cigarette smoke hanging in the dead air - air that smelled like an incontinent ferret in heat. Just to the left was a bar with three sailors holding it together.

"Hey, what are you pissants doing here?" shouted Sheffield.

Turning, the trio recognized Sheff and Monk instantly.

"Well fuck me, look what the fuckin' cat drug in." EM1 Jason Bradford announced.

Laughing, Monk responded, "You bunch of deuce bags. How'd you find this place?"

"Old man down on the pier gave us directions."

"Tassos?" questioned Sheffield.

"Don't know the old man's name. But guess what? The son-of-a-bitch had a Mullinnix lighter? Can you believe that shit?"

Looking at Monk, Sheffield laughed, "Small world huh Monk?"

"Yep, sure the hell is!"

"How long have you guys been here?" asked Sheffield.

"Just got here a while ago. You’re only 2 rounds behind. A couple of the guys are out back getting laid. We're waiting for the night shift to show up." Bradford answered.

"Speaking of rounds, how do you order a drink in this place?" said Sheffield.

"Hey! Pete, we need some more drinks over here," ordered Bradford. Leaning into Sheffield, he muttered, "we call him Pete because he doesn't speak much English and we can't understand what is real fuckin' name is."

Sheffield and Sebastian's eyes fell onto a face that appeared to be mottled with anger. A thought buried like an insect between his eyes as he passed a pair of yellow dice back and forth from one hand to the other. He didn't blink, his eyelids stitched to his brows. The thick hair, iron grey streaked with silver, waved back from a high forehead.

"Spooky lookin' fuck int'n he?" whispered Monk.

They ordered two ouzos - each. Sharked the first one, then savored the second.

"What's this about the night shift?" Monk wondered.

Brooks, one of the other EMs with Bradford, offered, "We understand the most of the women start work around sundown. Looking at the gloom outside, I'd say that is about anytime now."

"Let's have another round of ouzo while we wait," suggested the third EM, Johnston.

"Pete, set'em up all around!"

After a couple more rounds, the two love-starved Muxmen crawled in the entrance from the backrooms looking like they’d indeed had their ashes hauled. The told a story of uncontrolled sexuality, women strip-washing in front of them, and belly dancing routines. One even suggested that three of them go back and set 'condition dog zebra' with one of the women.

Following the Muxmen into the bar moments later was the night shift. Some women were dressed in men's flannel shirts, long calico skirts, and high-top tennis shoes with socks pulled even higher. Others wore provocative make-up, tattoos, and revealing dresses. One of the tennis shoe-crew made a bee-line towards Brooks. She was butt-ugly, with a flat nose, big teeth, black greasy hair, and strong garlic breath. Brooks, almost gagging on his drink, lied through his teeth about being broke.

Monk leaned over to Brooks and confessed, "The last time I saw a mouth that ugly it had a hook in it and Tassos was going to skin it for dinner."

"That's a no-shitter," agreed Brooks, "I'm going to take a piss."

Another women literally attacked Sheffield, her hands ran all over him like a blind man exploring the contours of an unfamiliar face.

Monk spotted her first. She was all fashion. Not high-class fashion, more like bar-class - the king of class that was eye-candy to a love-starved sailor. She had legs - legs all the way down to her stiletto-spiked heels. Legs that could wrap around you about three times. Her dress spilled off her shoulders and clung to her body in a bell-like shape. Hanging loose, her hair trailed down her back and shimmered in the light. She had a vivacious set of deep-sea blues. Her eyes turned on him, the intensity of her gaze made him uncomfortable.

Monk was one of those staunch Americans who, having decided a liberty port was his own, in most cases strongly resented the inhabitants of it. It wasn't entirely his own fault as his gene pool wasn’t much more than ankle deep. He came from a beer and trailer-park environment. With women, he was like a wolf in a henhouse.

She was vamping for him, one hand cocked on a hip, the other reached for his hand. He let her take it. She pulled him up to a standing position. Her scent, like jasmine, lingered around her.

"Hey Monk," hollered Sheffield, "you ain't leavin' are ya? Like I always say, we got to keep drinkin' until we're happy!"

"Go to hell, shit-bag!" offered Monk, gazing into her china blue eyes. He tried to speak to her but his tongue felt swollen as if he’d been drinking salt water.

Laughing, Bradford added, "Are you in love Monk?"

He didn't answer. Her eyes burned into his. She saw him grow pale and draw in his breath, and she smiled to herself contentedly. She knew her own magic and power over men, in particularly, sailors. The cigarette he kept behind one ear; plummeting unnoticed to the ground.

"I think we've lost our beloved Sebastian boys," said Sheffield, as Monk was led out the back. "Pete, I need another shot!"

Once in the small darkened room the women told Monk to wait a minute. She disappeared through a side opening covered in beads only to return moments later. She was swaying in the dim light in a burlesque-like costume with spangles on her breasts and a triangle of silk over her ass. He was astounded at the raw beauty and power of her body, flowing like a liquid substance.

All he wanted was to feel her body on his, her skin against his skin and her sweat mingled with his own. Emotion. Sailors don't usually think about them. They feel them, act on them, but hardly ever think about them. There's no reason to, it's a part of them. All he understood at the moment was he wanted her, wanted her badly, nothing else mattered.

Later, still sprawled out on damp sheets, he could only think of her and her body. She'd had nipples the size of a midget's fist and a dolphin tattoo on the left cheek of her ass. The scent of her body was still on his skin. With a heavy sigh, he stood and threw on his uniform and stumbled back into the bar. How late was it he wondered.

The place had empty out, Bradford and his bunch long gone. A couple sailors from another tin can still hard at it in the corner. In the other corner was Sheffield, his body slumped like a sack of loose bones - dead drunk again. It never changed, never ended.

Monk slung his arm under his friends shoulder around his back and stood him up, "Come on Sheff, it's time to head back the ship." As the two staggered out the door, Monk said, "Thanks Pete, for keeping an eye on him," not knowing whether that was true of if he'd saved him from the dark man.

The following morning, 16 October, Sheffield and Sebastian were praying for a Camel. Not the smoke, but a Greek invention, made with ouzo, to cure a hangover. Life sucked. Their heads were throbbing. Sheffield couldn't speak too quickly for fear he might puke. Monk wore new dungarees, but that couldn't hide the fact that he’d only shaved one side of his face. Their eyes look like one big red vein, and even their hair hurt. Sheffield's ass was in perpetual spasm, and the first of about five shits he took during the day brought water to the eyes of everyone who entered the head.

If that wasn't bad enough, at 0930 the crew was mustered on the fantail for Change of Command Ceremony. His Holiness, The Bishop of Mitelini, His honor the Governor of the Island of Lesvos, numerous officers of the Greek Army and civilian officials, and crew members in various stages of brown-bottle flu witnessed Captain S. C. Small haul down his broad command pennant. He was officially relieved by Captain Robert B. Kelley when Kelley broke his pennant.

"That was a one-hell-of-a-way to spend a sunny morning," growled Sheffield. "Shut up! Let's go get some coffee," answered Sebastian.

The pair managed to get to the mess decks without losing breakfast. "Hey, is this cream supposed to have chunks?" asked Sheffield. "Just pretend it's cottage cheese and stir it a little harder!" offered Sebastian, adding, "It doesn't matter who's in office, Navy coffee tastes the same."

"I need a restorative! You got any of that ouzos-shit stuck some place?"

"Come-on Sheff, lay off. That's what made you feel this way in the first place. Hell, I've about decided that may be the last time I drink."

Heading forward, Bradford was moving fast, like he had a chili pepper up his ass.

"Bradford, slow down, sit down and have a cup-o-joe with us. Monk and I are thinking about swearing off drinking.

"Can't! Got the duty!" Laughing, "You two take the fuckin' cake. Stop drinking?" The Chesterfield jumped up and down as he talked, dropping asses onto the deck.

With a renewed spasm in his head, Sheff replied, "Take that Chesterfield, put a coat of Vaseline on it, and shove it up your ass!"

Ordinary moments in an ordinary day for ordinary sailors...

To be continued...

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