USS MULLINNIX DD-944
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Piraeus Greece 1959
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Excerpt from "The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944"
A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood
FTG3 John "True" Trumble was something else. Most days the Navy was at a lost at what do to with the man. He was a handsome kid with a Vandyke that gave him a rakish and mischievous musketeer quality. He was thick and looked strong, although his features were fine. His eyes were sharp with just a little bit of wayward electricity in them. Much didn't get past him and what did was viewed with quiet irony. 'True' was a man adrift on the sea of life without a tiller, without a focus, his world a watery void ever since his divorce. He'd come to the conclusion that every sailor has a finite capacity to accept tragedy, and he was reasonably sure he was close to the limit.
To say FTG3 Philip "Budro" McKensie was a drinker was like saying the winters in Minnesota were chilly. When he drank he was like a blind man in a playground trying to get back on the swing. At eighteen, unconverted to his parent's faith, mean, and filled with hate, he graduated at the bottom of his high-school class, escaped into the Navy, and was hell-bent on spending his entire career riding tin cans. He had a nature combativeness. He'd heard talk about the 'new' missile ships. Budro's response? "Fuck'em! Nothin will ever replace these guns. Mark my words, nothing!"
Trumble was the tonic to Mckensie's gin, the coke to his rum, They were 'brothers' and twins. Individually, True and Budro were a hand full. Together, they just might be the end of FTGC Howard Kramer.
Chief Kramer wasn't your typical Naval chief, with his bowed legs, a tubular-shaped nose and a tiny mouth. His body was shaped like a soft-sided pyramid. His breath wheezed in his chest. He stunk of nicotine, tar, and beer-sweat. He'd had a small stroke in 1958 that almost ended his Naval career. They called him Lefty, behind his back.
Budro was found of asking his buddies, "Have you seen his fuckin' teeth? He could make keys!" The two were ready to hit the beach to find out firsthand what Greece was all about. More distinctly, to find out how the Piraeus women stacked up against those in Italy and France.
With a voice as dry as old leaves, "Hey you two! Trumble! McKensie!" yelled Kramer.
"Shit," growled McKensie. He rolled the 's' into an angry hiss, almost a spit. "When is that motherfucker ever going to get off our ass?"
"You two finish priming the forward director?"
"Fat fuck, can't make it past the fuckin' torpedo deck or he could've seen for himself," murmured Trumble. Holding back a sarcastic smile, "Sure thing Chief, just like you wanted. If you want, we can go up with you and inspect the thing?"
"I'll check it later," countered Kramer. "I want that son-of-a-bitch gray by tomorrow Noon. Not a minute later!"
Ole' True and Budro hit the pier simultaneously, the last step off the gangplank had an extra bounce in it. Lighting a smoke, Trumble said, "You know somethin' Budro, after listening to him for a few minutes you realized, 'fuck, we don't have enough bread crumbs to get back to the ship!'"
"Kramer is an asshole pure and simple," quipped Budro. He made the name sound like a carpet stain. "Forget him True. We've got a night ahead of us that is destine to be unforgettable!"
Piraeus rose before then like a dream. Piraeus is a city in the periphery of Attica, Greece, located south of Athens. It is the capital of the Piraeus Prefecture. It was the port of the ancient city of Athens, and was chosen to serve as the modern port when Athens was re-founded in 1834. It consists of a rocky promontory, containing three natural harbors, a large one on the north-west which is an important commercial harbor for the eastern Mediterranean Sea, and two smaller ones, Zea and Mikrolimano, used for naval purposes. The port serves ferry routes to almost every island in the eastern portion of Greece, the island of Crete, the Cyclades, the Dodecanese, and much of the northern and the eastern Aegean. If women lived here, it would be the perfect port of call.
True and Budro found a smallish city surrounded with organic pistachio farm, a city with ferry boats, and a metro station separated by streets where the traffic never stops and yet there are no crosswalks - dangerous for drinking sailors. The light that tells them when to cross seems to never favor them and when the little man does turn green they can only get half way across the street and are stuck on a traffic island that is about a foot wide with a hundred locals and traffic whizzing by from both directions.
"Fuck me!" said Budro.
"What?" answered True
"I'm dyin' of thrust here, we ever going to get across this fuckin' street?"
"Two minutes. Five tops. You'll be into your 2nd beer and falling in love."
"I'm holding you to that buddy."
Once across they found Uzis on display in the window of a shop that sold radios and heavy weapons.
"Fuck me! Think we could get one of those son-of-a-bitches across the quarterdeck?"
Busy streets, packed with taxis, cars and buses. The square was in need of care but the outdoor cafes and restaurants were open and people were taking advantage of the beautiful sunny weather, drinking frappes and deep in conversation. The memories of the Chief fading fast, life was beautiful once again. Just happy people talking and drinking coffee while sailors looked for the next cold drink or hot women. Just beyond the square, Akti Koundourioti follows the shore of Piraeus above a small beach where there were people swimming. The sea was still and in the distance they could see the planes landing and taking off from the airport.
The pair spotted a small restaurant that seemed inexpensive called the Argos. The maitre de was a nice man with an honest smile so they sat down and ordered a beer and, spotting the onion rings on the next table, some fried calamari. Within a few minutes they were serenaded by a street violinist and a bouzouki player and an old gypsy woman tried to sell them a blanket. Everyone appeared to be in a good mood because of the weather and the food looked delicious.
The calamari showed up with a second beer.
Taking a big bite, "Fuck!" spitting chunks of squid and breading across the floor. "What the fuck is this, True?"
Laughing, "either squid or octopus."
"Cocksucker, I thought they were onions rings! How can anyone eat this shit?"
"You aren't in Kansas anymore Toto."
"Well, just because I'm called a squid doesn't mean I’m eating this nasty shit!"
After they left the Argos, they posed with giant fish and let an old man take their picture. Once finished, he tried to sell the pair a copy of the photo.
"Hell, why would I want one of those True?" questioned Budro. "Now, if the old man wants to follow us to the house of ill repute, he can take all the pictures he wants, I'll buy a dozen each!"
"Yea, so you could post them in the head. You braggin' fuck."
The narrow streets near the pier were lined with exotic dance clubs, massage parlors, porn, and adult entertainment. Local food vendors, caricature artists, balloon magicians, girls arm-in-arm, whores plying their trade, a musician playing a homemade guitar, tattoo artists, tarot readers, an encampment of gypsies heading east, and a dingy place that proclaimed a funky "creature" named Koka — half leopard, half human. Letting a bunch of sailors loose in a place like this is like banana time in the monkey cage. The street lights reflected from the wet pavement, the rain just letting up.
They quickly found a perfect place to have their next drink - and maybe their last. Two enormous pear-like trees of incalculable age and white with blossoms like ships in full sail formed a background to the place. An old wooden sign swinging from one of the large low-hanging limbs read 'The Golden Dream Hotel'.
"They wouldn't lie to a ole' boy from Georgia would they?", studying the aging sign.
"Only one way to find out Budro." The pair waltzed into the place like they were the owners, it was packed with sailors and whores. Their kind of place. A place where sailors turned to idiots, mouths hangin' open, waiting for some woman to dangle her tit in it.
The main bar was open to the street, with large ceiling fans and a beautiful dark wooden bar to lean on, where you could drink good Ouzo at reasonable prices. A collection of brass dolphin door-knockers decorated one wall. The others were covered in dark wood panels and featured pictures of old sailing ships. Smoke hung in the air like a dropped ceiling. The floorboards were of ancient oak, black and stout as ship’s timbers. There was a wide doorway to a side-room that was an open-air square with tables inside of the shadows of the giant trees. Two sailors were leaving the bar with a couple lovelies in tow. True and Budro slid onto the empty stools and ordered beer.
Girls in fishnet stockings were waiting tables. The two bartenders were - well, every lady is a woman first. These two were no exception. The place smelled like an animal house at the zoo, most clothing stained dark with sweat. There was an untamed ferocity in the thick acrid air.
Budro slammed down his mug, waterfalling beer down the sides. "Here's to getting through another one;"
"Another what?" questioned Trumble.
"Day," answered Budro, pausing, "Hey True. I've always meant to ask you but didn't think it was my place. Why'd you get divorce?"
Pausing, thinking about the best way to answer his friend's question. "Don't get me wrong, she was a real looker. She had great tits and wore anchora sweaters all the time. We got along most of the time. But she wanted me to be a TV repair man."
"So?"
"So, I told her to go fuck herself," laughed True.
Knowing that his buddy was stilling hurting and there wasn't going to be a straight answer tonight, Budro let it drop.
Trumble felt a presents behind him. He half turned as she touched his shoulder. A current ran through him. She had hot-gold red hair. High cheekbones gave her a regal look and there was a glow to her skin that lent it the sheen of marble. Smoky grey eyes that had unlimited depth drilled into his.
Passion is a strange thing, a thing that warps and twists everything with which it comes in contact. It's like the combination of moisture and sunshine on wood; sometimes it turns out all right, most of the times it doesn't, but you couldn't ignore its strength. Trumble had always dealt with passion with an even handed balance of attraction and mistrust, he was a mechanism that operated on the impulse of passion as if it were JP5.
She look sheepishly at him. It was a look that agreed with her. She was so beautiful he couldn't breathe. Her touch made him feel they were naked and alone. She 'walked' away leaving a trail of expensive perfume behind, turned, smiled knowingly. Trumble stood, following her, "Budro, at what point exactly does the woman of your dreams stop being, quite literally, the woman of your dreams?"
"I hope you get the clap," laughed McKensie.
On the second floor of the Golden Dream Hotel, she lay next to him, the curve of her body close against his, her arms across his chest, the fragrance of her hair cool in his face. Trumble did not wake until dawn.
Shortly after his buddy left, McKensie switched to Ouzo. Stayed with it all night. It stayed with him the next morning.
"Budro, get out of your rack! Quarters in 5 minutes!" barked Trumble.
McKensie felt no pain, but something was definitely amiss. He looked okay, but he had the mental capacity of a knuckle-buster. He knew the first cup of Joe would only increase the rumbling in his gut, which was still tossing around the mystery meat from last night. There was some definite havoc being wreaked upon his bowels.
Clawing the hang over off his face with both hands, "Tell the Chief to go fuck himself!"
To be continued...
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