by Nick Vellis
AJ was familiar with many types of weapons from his Army days, but this was a complete surprise. He couldn’t imagine his father owning any type of weapon and certainly not putting one in a safe deposit box. He carefully put everything, including the gun, in his briefcase. He pushed the buzzer on the wall for the attendants to come get the box.
The drive home gave AJ time to think, but he came up with more questions than answers. When he walked through the door, Ceres, who was at the kitchen counter reading the newspaper, looked up and smiled.
“You’re surprised at what you found?” he said.
“You could say that. What the hell’s going on?” AJ responded.
“It is, as they say, a long story,” Ceres suddenly looked very weary. “Let us look at what your father collected. It will help in the telling. You see, your father became interested in what his father had done in the war. Many people do this. With the Internet it is sometimes an easy thing to find information long forgotten and lost to those who desire it,” Ceres said in a sad, but matter of fact way.
“Why’d you suppose he told you about this, his search and the safe deposit box, but never mentioned it to me?” AJ asked.
Ceres shrugged, and replied, “He wasn’t sure what he would find. He kept his research to himself,” Ceres pointed to AJ’s brief case. “You brought the files with you?”
“I did. There’s a ton of stuff here - articles, records and an old gun.”
“Let’s take it one step at a time. Look at the archival items first,” Ceres coaxed.
“Well, these are copies from the National Archives,” AJ said noticing the printed notation at the top of each page as he leafed through the records. “They’re mission records and After Action Reports. Look here,” he said, pointing to the faint photocopies, “these are signed by my grandfather Lt. John Pantheras. There are more than a dozen reports here. Combat patrols, ambushes, rail and bridge demolition, and other sabotage,” AJ said as he leafed through the report. “He only had a few men, too.”
“Your father went to Washington, D.C., and spent nearly a month searching the archives for these documents.”
AJ read each report carefully looking for clues, about what he didn’t know. Opening the next envelope labeled Military Records; he scanned dozens of pages of legal-sized documents.
“Look, his military record,” said AJ. “Lt. John Pantheras, campaign ribbons for Europe, Sicily, and Italy, Commander, OSS Operational Group 14, whatever that is? Here are dates of enlistment, promotions, and a field promotion from Sergeant to Second Lieutenant. That was a big deal back then,” AJ said, drawing on his former military experience.
“He had parachute, special weapons, and demolition training too. Oh no, look at this, Status Classified -MIA- Probable Desertion. This would be why my father was looking into this. He was obsessive with honor. When he found this out,” AJ held up the faded photocopies, “it would be like a red flag in front of a bull.”
“I recall when your father told me about finding this. I told him, as I say to you, these records do not reflect the man I knew,” Ceres said.
“What about the gun? Where’d it come from?” AJ asked.
“That was the weapon your grandfather carried in Greece. I have kept it these many years and gave it to your father on his last trip before he was killed,” Ceres said.
“There is something I must show you. It will raise questions, but it will prove to you this is serious, not some wild fantasy,” Ceres said.
He took a blue cloth bag tied with heavy cord from his leather folio. It was about five inches by four inches, perhaps four inches thick, and was very heavy. AJ looked quizzically as Ceres handed him the package. AJ needed two hands to hold the object.
“What is this, Ceres?” AJ asked.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” the older man responded. “Unwrap it.”
AJ put the object on the table, quickly untied the cord, and loosened the cloth. What he saw shook him to his core. It glowed and shimmered under the artificial light of AJ’s living room. It mesmerized him. He was holding part of an irregularly shaped gold bar, crushed nearly flat at one end. Not just any gold bar, but one stamped with a swastika. When AJ turned the bar over, he saw 999.9 FG Das Griechenland stamped on the back.
AJ looked up at Ceres, his eyes full of questions. “What does this mean?” said AJ, pointing to the stamped words.
“It’s German for Greece,” Ceres replied.
AJ stared at the object in his hands. Then slowly he looked up at his companion and said, “This is amazing. How did you get this?”
“I was with your grandfather when he stole it,” Ceres replied. “We have much to discuss.”
CHAPTER 4 OCCUPIED GREECE 23 JULY, 1944
The C-47, nicknamed the Gooney Bird, was the U.S. Army’s workhorse. This plane, no different from thousands of others, flew into the uncertain darkness. Its olive-drab fuselage disappeared into the moonless night sky, only faintly visible from the ground by the white stars painted on either side of the fuselage. The plane rattled fearfully as it shook and bounced in the ever-changing cool and warm air currents rising from the hills and plains below. Up front, two young Army Air Corps lieutenants in khaki flight suits sat with headsets over the top of their caps. The silver wings on their chests reflected the dull red glow from the instruments as they sat at the controls. The pilot and copilot strained to look into the night sky and hold the plane on course. In back more than a dozen paratroopers loaded with weapons and gear sweated out the long ride, uncertain what each tick of the clock might bring.
The pilot touched his throat mic and told the crew chief to get their passengers ready.
The men never got used to the vibrating drone of the Gooney Bird’s twin engines. It thrummed through their feet, into their bodies, and through their souls. When the men eventually landed on terra firma again, they would feel the vibration for hours. The ever-present smell of gasoline and the unrelenting din soon overcame the adrenaline in the cabin as, one-by-one the men drifted into fitful sleep despite tightly cinched combat gear and parachutes. They’d left Bari two hours after sunset. Now, Italy far behind them, they were gliding over occupied Greece, flying toward a planned rendezvous with the Andartes, the Greek resistance.
The crew chief was the only one moving about, stepping over and on the feet of a dozen paratroopers crammed onto the long hard benches lining both sides of the plane’s cabin. He was on his way to deliver a message to the man staring out the open jump door.
Only twenty-two years old, he wore second lieutenant’s bars on the collar of his OD field jacket. An American flag was on his right shoulder, an OSS operational group patch on his left. His muscular body was tense, a wound spring ready to be unleashed. His angular face, with its pair of piercing dark eyes, turned slowly toward the crew chief as he tapped the lieutenant’s shoulder.
“Lieutenant, pilot says 20 minutes to the jump zone, sir. You can start your equipment checks,” the crew chief shouted in the lieutenant’s ear.
Second Lieutenant John Pantheras, United States Army, commanding officer of OSS Operational Group 14 nodded and gave the chief a tense smile, unwilling to shout over the engine noise. A veteran of Sicily and Italy, Pantheras had made Second Lieutenant through a field commission.
He was grateful for the promotion but was never comfortable talking about how he got it or the price others had paid for him. Shortly after the Anzio landings, Pantheras found himself in a tough spot when a reinforced company of the 16th Panzer Grenadier attacked his platoon. The fighting eventually had been hand-to-hand. His men fought tenaciously, and Pantheras was promoted along with the other wounded survivors.
He had been staring into the darkness trying not to think about the past. He thought of Sylvia, home in Reading, teaching school, and preparing for a baby, their baby. How lucky he’d been to draw recuperation leave at home. He could almost see her face in the cold black sky and silently prayed she would be all right without him. He needed t
o keep his mind clear for the coming mission. This was his first experience behind the lines, and he wondered if he could live up to the responsibility, if he could take care of his men.
Gazing out at the night sky a moment more, Pantheras breathed a heavy sigh, then struggled to his feet, and immediately felt every eye in the cabin on him. These highly trained men were handpicked for this mission. Each of them spoke Greek and several more, including Pantheras, spoke German as well. Their number, half the plane’s capacity, assured they’d have the range to reach their drop zone deep in occupied Greece. Shaking off his misgivings, Pantheras closed his eyes, let out a breath and began their mission by giving the palm up signal to stand. Every man struggled to his feet. Soon a dozen men, loaded for combat, were standing.
Next, he gave the signal for equipment checks. Each man quickly but very carefully examined the next man’s static lines, chute harness, main and reserve chutes, the mechanisms that would get them safely on the ground. Then they examined web gear, weapons slings, ammo pouches, and musette bags, all the things they would need to stay alive once they hit the ground. One by one, the men raised their right hands indicating checks were complete and all was ready. Equipment checks done, Pantheras made a fist and crooked his index finger to signal hook up. Each man hooked the clip on his static line to the cable running high along the length of the cabin.
They hooked up early in case of an emergency, standard practice for deep penetration jumps. It was murderously tough to stand for long periods with full gear but made it a cinch to run for the jump door in a hurry and have the static line open your chute. Pantheras connected the static lines for the heavy equipment bags the crew chief would toss out when the men were safely out of the plane.
He had no sooner taken his place by the door when he heard strange sounds over the roar of the engines, whump, whump, whump, over and over and all around them. He looked out the open door to see dark black clouds with fiery orange centers appear in the sky. What was it? The darkened cabin shook violently as a new blast of cold air hit him. The man directly across from him pointed to a jagged hole in the fuselage right next to where he’d been sitting a moment before.
The otherworldly noise continued and seemed to grow louder. The plane shuddered again, harder this time, as a terrific blast drowned out the engines and the cabin filled with blinding orange light. When the lieutenant saw searing tongues of fire leap through the front of the cabin, he gave the jump signal and dove out the door backwards.
An icy wind’s shriek replaced the engine’s din as he fell from the sky. Turned on his back, Pantheras saw tiny dots appear above and behind him. He could see their plane turning toward the earth. The front of the plane was completely gone; the engine nearest to him was on fire. Then he saw a flash to his right, on the far side of the plane. Flak! Suddenly the sinking airplane burst into brilliant orange and blue as it exploded.
Burning wreckage plummeted to earth. Anti-aircraft artillery, the dreaded 88s, had hit their plane. How many of his men and the flight crew had been killed? Pantheras could only guess. His chute opened, jerking the breath out of him and taking his mind off the flaming tragedy he had just witnessed. He could only watch and pray as he drifted down to earth.
Pantheras hit the ground, and the spinning chute rolled him over on to his back. He tried to dump the air out of the canopy, but a light wind pushed the chute horizontally, dragging him along the ground. He twisted his body and was able to get off his back but immediately saw a big rock coming. He tried to dodge it, but he hit his head and passed out.
“L–T, Lieutenant Pantheras.”
John Pantheras shook himself, realizing that he was face down in the damp dirt. A voice had roused him. He was on the ground still in his chute. He mentally took inventory; his head throbbed, and he ached all over, but he didn’t really hurt anywhere so nothing was broken. What a relief. He turned his head to identify the sound and saw his lead NCO running toward him. It was a relief to see Staff Sergeant George Zabt alive. The Sergeant turned Pantheras over, patted him down for injuries, and quickly got him out of his chute.
“You OK, sir?”
“I think so. What the hell happened?” Pantheras replied.
“I’m not sure. I’m kinda dazed myself.”
“Seen any of the others?”
“Yeah, a couple. Over that a-way,” he said, pointing to his right. “I saw one of the big equipment bags, too. I was going for it when I saw you. If you’re OK…..”
“I’m OK, go. Find who you can, rally point right here,” he said pointing to the ground, “Let’s get organized.”
“Right-oh,” Zabt whispered, as he ran off at a crouched trot, a .45 in hand.
Pantheras looked down. His right hand was stained with sienna-colored earth. He held a fistful of it to his face, taking in its musky fragrance. This was the land of his father. This was Greece. Time to set her free.
Pantheras stood on shaky legs. He shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs. The place he’d smacked his head throbbed and was bleeding, but it could have been much worse.
He grabbed the chute harness and wound the shrouds in toward his body. Gathering the canopy in his arms, he wrapped the lines around it to make a compact package for burial in a shallow hole with the unit’s other chutes. Pantheras dropped the bundle at his feet when he heard a sound to his left. He drew his .45 as he turned toward the sound, but relaxed when he recognized George Zabt and a handful of his men jogging toward him.
“Situation report L-T,” Zabt said, when he caught up to his lieutenant. “No movement seen, yet. Don’t think we’ve been spotted, but that was one hell of a fireball. It would’ve been visible for …” Zabt didn’t finish the thought. “We’re missing five men sir, here’s a list,” Zabt said, as he handed the lieutenant a copy of their unit roster. The piece of paper bore five grim check marks. “It’s the guys from up front. They must have got to the door just as we were hit the second time. I found their heavy gear bag over there,” he said, pointing to his right. “It had the communications gear. We got lucky.”
“Yeah, lucky,” Pantheras repeated, with a flat expression.
“Sergeants Sanna, Raptis, Kasseris, Spiros, and Megolos are all in good shape. No injuries,” Zabt said.
“Thank God for that,” Pantheras said.
“Yes, sir. Thank God,” Zabt replied.
Strange how fate played out, Pantheras thought. The order the men had boarded the plane had determined who had lived and who had died. Curiously, the survivors were all sergeants, all combat veterans. The new men were all gone.
As Pantheras recovered his wits, he realized their plane had been hit by flak at least twice. It shouldn’t have happened. They’d planned the route to avoid populated areas and prevent detection. They had been flying over occupied but uninhabited territory. He had ordered them to jump when the first burst hit the nose, but the men could only react so fast wearing over a hundred pounds of gear.
The men closest to the door had escaped, and they were miles from their drop zone. All of them had seen the plane go down in flames. They all knew their friends and the flight crew were dead. Pantheras looked at each man in turn, and with a tight-lipped expression, nodded to each man acknowledging his survival.
“All the equipment we’ve located is OK,” Zabt continued. “We’ve got about half the explosives, three sets of walkie-talkies, the crystal radio, and most of the ammunition. We have six cases of mines and two bazookas with thirty-two rockets. Raptis has his BAR and 10,000 rounds. It’s a lot, but we can carry it.”
“Thank you, sergeant. Bad luck the plane being hit like that. The crew chief told me we had twenty minutes to the jump zone. We did the equipment checks, and then we were hit. I figure we were ten or twelve minutes out, wouldn’t you say? That would make it about twenty miles to the drop zone?”
Zabt hesitated, calculating the time for the equipment checks, and the speed of their plane then said, “Yes, sir, I figure it about the same. We can make about 15 ma
ybe 20 miles a day if the terrain doesn’t get any worse, but we’re carryin’ a big load.”
“I agree, but it can’t be helped. George, check me on these land marks.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pulling a poncho over their heads to conceal any visible light, the two men bent over the map, red filters on their L-lights, the L-shaped military-issue flashlights, clipped to their jackets.
“This is Mount Paiko to the northwest. Those two rivers to the west and south intersect here. This track we’re on could be this road here. Our target towns should be north by east from here,” said Pantheras, pointing to features on the map.
The two men came out from under the poncho. Pantheras pointed northwest , “Mount Paiko,” he said, then turned ninety degrees, pointed and added, “and the two rivers.”
George oriented the map, consulted it, and after a moment’s contemplation, replied, “I agree sir, Plati is east, and Pella is northeast of here.” He pointed to a spot on the map.
“Well, that’s it then,” Pantheras said.
“We assume we’re astride this dirt track,” he said, tapping the map, “and strike out for the area of Pella to the northeast. Maybe the Andartes saw the plane go down and will be looking for us,” Pantheras said.
“Right, sir. It was a big fireball. The krauts will be lookin’ too,” Zabt said looking at his watch, then added, “We should have about six hours to first light. May I suggest to the Lieutenant we get the hell outta here?”
“Yes, Sergeant, you may,” Pantheras replied with a smile.
Pantheras turned toward his men.“Men. We’ve had some bad luck tonight, and we’ve lost good men, friends. We’re all volunteers and know the risks. We’re Greek-Americans in our homeland, behind German lines, bloodied, but not beaten. We’re here to free Greece. Let’s not forget that. I think I know how you all feel. I feel the same way but we have a job to do, so let’s get on with it. That’s my big speech, any questions?”
