(40
souls; I’m old take my son, Policaria)
The
Journey from Kalamata by James B. Tsagaris
Edited
by Ellen Tsagaris, his daughter.
Copyright
2024
If.
. . men cannot always make history have a meaning, they can always act so that
their own lives have one.
Albert
Camus
Forward by Ellen Tsagaris, his
daughter:
My dad was an amazing story teller; from the
time I was a toddler, I listened to him talk about his experiences at the hands
of the Fascists, NAZIS, and communists, of his time in the airport, fairy tales
he made up for me, his adventures on his trips for work, you name it. What was all the more fascinating is that he
could tell stories in Greek sprinkled with pretty good Italian, and English. Like Joseph Conrad, Dad didn’t speak English
first. He spoke Greek, picked up Italian
from Fascist soldiers, studied Ancient Greek, and then had 12 or more years of
French, the latter of which he hated passionately. He learned English as a young adult, and soon
commanded it. He edited my dissertation
and two of my books, and handled all communications for this company in
his professional life. He also learned
to drive as an adult, and became the best driver I had ever known.
As a young man,
he was a world class runner who ran in both the ancient and modern Olympic
stadiums, winning many honors and awards. His coach was a former Olympian who
ran against Jesse Owens in Olympics. He
was a great swimmer and soccer player. He loved football, basketball, The Chicago Cubs, and later
in life, enjoyed walking his dogs, Killer and Smokey.
As a loving
husband and father, he planned long family road trips all over the United States, and especially to California, where he knew the way to San Jose better than anyone else. Always an excellent driver, he faithfully drove
his family to work, class, conferences, etc. He enjoyed making furniture and
doll houses for his family, enjoyed Westerns, politics, philately and
coins, books about The Civil War, singing, and dancing traditional Greek
dances. He loved Greek music, and read military history, and biography. His two
favorite songs were “Somewhere over the Rainbow” and “White Christmas.” He was
supportive of his wife’s career and of his daughter’s adventures as well.
He was an officer in the Royal Hellenic Air
Force and served with NATO and the U.S. Air Force. In Athens, he studied at the military academy
and taught mathematics for the air force, then became a pilot. He was stationed at Scott Air Base, Belleville, IL,
and studied there engineering and radio.
After marrying in Athens and starting a
family, he ran for office in Athens, and then
decided to move to Rock Island. He soon became an American Citizen,
which was the proudest accomplishment of his entire life. Much of this book centers on his early
military career.
Later, he
worked as an electrical engineer for Golf and Western Eagle Signal, Uticorp
Technologies, and other companies. He
became Sales and Quality Control Manager for Uticorp where he served for many
years.
Jim, as he
liked to be called, traveled the world for his job and for the military,
visiting every continent but Antarctica. He was an independent thinker, fair, and
passionate in his beliefs.
************************************************************************
The Start of the Journey to America
by James B. Tsagaris
The
old air force headquarters building as located on Amerikis St.off Stadium Blvd close to Constitution Square
in the heart of Athens.
A
few days earlier Athens radio had announced that
the candidates who made the entrance exams for the A.F. Technical
Academy should report
there, at the AF headquarters, at 8:00 AM in the morning of October 9,
1950. Now October 9th dawned
bright and shiny o Athens
and the time for the start of the events which would change my life forever was
approaching.
Amerikis
Street was, I guess it still is, a very narrow street not allowing too much
margin for error in car traffic, ad parking space was at best questionable, if
nonexistent, but the AF buses which would transport the prospective cadets to
the school in Tatoi AF Base had managed to park by the entrance of the HQ
building when I and my father arrived there round 7:30 that morning.
My
old man had not uttered a word about the Air Force and the real consequences of
my joining the service, since we lf our home town, Kalamata, a couple of days
earlier. Now, when the jig was finally
up, we were both trying very hard to avoid the issue and we just stood there,
mostly in silence, or at times talking about all sorts of trivial things,
avoiding even to acknowledge he reason why we were there outside the Air Force Headquarters on hat cool, sun drenched October Moring.
The
1950 class of the Academy was 100 strong and as the hour of 8:00 was
approaching it seemed that all 100 young people and those who had come to see
them off were there milling around making mall talk and waiting for someone to
give the signal to board the buses for the trip to the unknown, for which we
had competed so fiercely during the preceding weeks. We took written exams and
subjected ourselves to the indignities of all the medical screenings and the
competition of the track and field events.
You see, the Air Force only wanted to take in the cream of crop, and out
of the hundreds and hundreds of Young Turks who participated in the entrance
exams, the “Olympics”; at the end, the lucky 100 were about to board the buses
and be delivered to the upper classmen in Tatoi, who were waiting to convert
them from mamas’ boys into first class cadets in less than twenty for
hours. At last, the time for boarding
the buses came and slowly the boy started boarding with some officers
overlooking the process with smiles, and
at times, an all knowing nod and expression on their faces that somehow
indicated that they knew something that we innocent young lambs had no idea
whatsoever about the fate awaiting us at Tatoi!
I
delayed getting on the bus, and I stood there close to my father who still kept
silent, but, by now, I could tell that he was under terrific strain to control
himself. Finally, I made a move towards
the open door the bus trying to say something like good bye, and at that moment
I realized that my father was holding on to my hand and he was talking to me. At
first, I did not comprehend what he was saying, but then he repeated it, and I
realized that he was trying to tell me not to get on the bus. His voice was cracking and he was trying very
hard to avoid sobbing while he kept telling me that I proved tat I could pas
the exams and all, but I should better not join the service. He practically begged me to stay off that but
and go back home with him to the town of Kalamata where I was born and had lied
up to that time, but I boarded the bus, not knowing that the less than an hour
bus ride to Tatoi AF base was the start of a journey that would take me to
America to become a Yankee from Greece!
So,
there I was! Together with the other 99 chosen ones, most of us not even 18
years of age, riding the bus to our appointment with destiny! Now, of course, for most of these young lion
this “destiny” was not exactly something that happened of good or bad luck, or
the result of some other sinister coincidence, but rather, the culmination and
synergy of a lot of effort on the part of the candidates and their families
politics, shameful and shameless use of one’s connections in high laces,
etc. You see, under reasonable
circumstances, being admitted to a military school those years meant a free
education and a secure future career in an honorable profession, that is why passing
the entrance exam and getting into a military school required fierce
competition and above average abilities in academics physical condition, and athletic
endeavors. Naturally connections in the
right places, like people in the military and politicians, could be quite
beneficial to a candidate because even
top notch candidates in academic subjects, etc., sometimes needed a little help
to negotiate all the obstacles in the steeple chase!
I
have a very sneaky suspicion that the way these things are conducted in my home
country haven’t changed much since the time I had a small part in these games
in 1950! So, it must be said that he
wide eyed boys who at the end of the bus ride to Tatoi AF base would be
subjected to henceforth unimaginable hazing and cruel initiation ordeals, not
only had they asked for it, but they had tried awfully hard to be the
recipients of the treatment in exchange for a chance of a career in the
venerable Greek armed forces.
But,
what about me? How and why did I find
myself riding the cadet express that day in spite of my family’s objections and
my father’s desperate last minute attempts to dissuade me from joining? The reasons that put me on that AF bus were,
I guess, the same ones that caused the other candidates to follow that path;
that is, getting a great education had the desired to meet somebody out of
myself in service. I should also add the
fact that mine was a family of limited means, and therefore, the possibility of
an education beyond high school was out of the question. Also, my rebellion against my poor
circumstances, and the desire to break away from anything I knew in my young
life up tot hat time. The irony of it
all I, though, that it all happened without my planning ahead of time on my
part, let alone any planning by my family Yes, I wanted to ‘break loose, but
the how and where and through what means I would accomplish this I did not
know, until about three months before the bus ride on October 9, 1950.
*********************************************p. 3-4
The
epiphany occurred one day sometime during the first part of June 1950 immediately
after graduation from high school. It
seems that in the afternoon of that fateful day for me, all the gods on Mount Olympus joined together to conspire and draw me back to
the high school which had just gradated me days before. A class mate of mine asked me to walk with
him there to check some grades which were supposed to be posted on the bulletin
board. So, off I go to the old Alma
Mater, and sure enough, the grades are posted, and we proceeded to do a little
looking over of the information on the board, when out of nowhere appears the
old high school custodian, who by the was, was immediately relieved that I and
my friend were among the graduated class.
Many times we had certain differences of opinion with him during our
tenure in high school. Now you may
wonder, “So what if the custodian shows up in the old school yard? He is the custodian of the damned place and
he has to be around there all the time.
Well, yes, and no. Remember, this
is early June in Kalamata, it is summer, and it is siesta time. It’s hot and humid, not a leaf on the mulberry
trees moves, and all is quiet. Under any
other circumstances the old buzzard should be snoozing it off somewhere in the
shade of the tree, but no sir, not today!
Today we’re working during siesta.
And what kind of work do we do?
Well, didn’t you know it? We put
up various announcements on the bulleting board, nad the first one he sticks up
there right in front of my nose is this paper with the logo of the department
of defense which announces to all young men in the land that Mamma Greece needs
one hundred high school graduates to make engineering types of out of them!
They
spelled out everything on that document, boy! I read it, and as I was reading
it, all the pieces of the puzzle of my future started fitting together. Of course, there are various documents that
have to be collected and submitted to the Air Force, and everything has to be
approved and signed off by my old mane (I wasn’t yet legal age), details,
details. Somehow. I was going to be on
that bus come hell or high water, and I was going to school at Tatoi AF
base. The fact that I did into have the
foggiest notion where on the map Tatoi was, or what in the hell I was going to
do was there did not bother me at all.
What mattered was the exhilarating thought that I had found the ticket
for my way out of Kalamata! All I had to
do was, first of all, break the news to my mother and through her to the old
man.
Next,
prepare a pile of documents to send to the Air Force in order to qualify as a
candidate. Study for the entrance
written exams, and evaluate my situation in regard to “connections” in case I
needed help any where on the way to the Promised Land. The most critical of all the “must do” things
were talking to Mamma first, and getting all the necessary papers in view of
the fact that there was only one week left until the deadline for filing the
required paperwork with the Department of Defense. Apparently, the custodian or somebody of the
powers that be in the school, was sitting on the announcement for the
government; they did not put it up on the bulletin board until the last
possible moment.
Now,
what took place between the time I saw the invitation from other Greece and made
up my mind to go fir it, and October 9th, when I boarded the bus
outside of the AF headquarters is a strange story in itself. I’ll try to put on paper all the turns and
twists of my life during those three months which had such tremendous
consequences for the rest of my life.
Greece
in 1950 was struggling to her on her feet and recover from the calamities of
the Second World War and the German/Italian occupation. Worse
yet, the cataclysmic consequences of the Communist ‘third round” were
still permeating every aspect of socioeconomic and political life in the
country. Yes, it’s true that Democracy
was born and raised in Greece,
but it was obvious that of the time being it had taken a sabbatical and things
weren’t very democratic at all in my old country during that period.
Against
that background, getting employment in any field in the public sector to
becoming a member of the armed forces required very detailed screening of the
person who was a candidate for anything having to do with the Greek Uncle
Sam. Not only the candidate himself or
herself, but his or her immediate or once, twice, etc. removed relations and
their friends, and even heir dogs nad casts would come under scrutiny. In other words, one should be the epitome of
Mr. Clean and there should be no trace of political pink shade anywhere in the
person’s and the family’s background. So,
when, I was talking about paperwork to be collected and forwarded to the
government, I meant all kinds of documents and certificates which would show
that I was not contaminated with any parasitic ideas which would be unbecoming
to an officer and a gentleman.
I
had to have papers proving to the Air Force who I was and what I had been doing
for eighteen years prior to the summer of 1950.
Of course in a case like this, you must always start with your birth
certificate. That’s what I tried to get
first. So, the morning after the
revelation at the high school yard, I was up bright and early and headed for
city hall where, in several occasions before, they had issued birth
certificates for me when my folks registered me in first grade, highs school, etc.
The
city hall people knew my family because the mayor, who was a medical doctor by profession
happened to be our family doctor and he and my father were pals from way, way,
back. I had always walked into the
Kalamata city hall offices with an air of familiarity, as if I were one of them,
and I behaved the same way that morning.
Peter,
the city clerk, was at this desk when I walked in and I told him what I was
after. “Sure thing”, he said,” I’ll have
you ready in a second.”’ He got a birth certificate from the 1932 births
registrations book and he started filling in the appropriate parts of the
document. Suddenly, he frowned, nad then
thumbed back and forth between some pages in the registry as if he were looking
for something that he was supposed to be there, but he could not find it, and
the n, with an expression of utter disbelief, lifted his eyes towards me and
said, “my boy, according to this book here, you are a Mr. NO Name case1” well, what was this supposed to mean? I argued with him but the book was not
lying. What was wrong was that fact that
there was no first name registered for the boy born to Basil and Helen Tsagaris
on March 14,
Dad's Fig Tree poem, below:
Αγαπητέ καθηγητή είχε τώρα γνωρίζουμε
Aπόσο σας άρεσε το δέντρο σύκων,
εμείς θα έχουν φυτευτεί ένα που σας
αλάκα!
Dear Professor, had we known how
you
Loved the Fig Tree,
We would have planted
One in your , , ,
_________________________________________________________________________________ This
piece of bad new must have done something to my posture and appearance because
I was standing there in the yard of the court house, I had a weird feeling that
I was drawing attention fro the people around me, this birth certificate
business was turning out to be such a disappointment, and the more I though
about it, the more I started blaming my mother nad father for this eighteen
year old “sin” which came up to screw up my plans at such a critical point of
my life. But, a in many other times
before and after in my life, the right thing happened again [Divine Providence,
and the road to the Air Force school which eventually would lead me to Yankee
land was cleared for me once again.
This
one time, the helping hand belonged to a priest
I seems that this good old man of the cloth happened to have some
business in the Palace of Justice that day, and luck had it that the Father of
the flock at the church of Archangels Gabriel and Michael saw me, looking like
a lost sheep I the middle of the yard of the court house, and decided to stop
and inquire. Now, what as strange about
the whole thing, was the fat that the Church of Archangels
Gabriel and Michael was our parish church and the
priest knew me personally and by my first name.
I cannot ay that the good Father knew me because I was a devout Church goer of a choir boy I fact, the opposite was true. I was known to him as the gang leader who was
organizing the soccer games in the open square in front of his church, an
activity which was causing much consternation to the priest ad the surrounding
neighborhoods, especially during summer siesta times!
The
priest approached me and I remember him asking me “What is the matter, son?..
Slow down, you’re going to hurt yourself…can I help? “ I thought to myself, if any one could help he
sure as hell could, and I proceeded telling him the whole thing about the
deadline for the Air Force, the mix up with the birth certificate which I could
not have, my suspicion that my parents were the source of my problem, etc. I
also let him in the secret that my family knew nothing about my escapades so
far, and I sort of begged him to keep everything under his frock for the time
being.
The
good shepherd of my church listened to the story with suspicious interest, and
at times, I thought, in disbelief. When
he saw that I had calmed down, he asked me some questions and apparently he decided
that my case represented a genuine worthwhile case for divine intervention. He looked at me with the confidence of a man
who had already figured out the solution to the problem, and he commanded me,
“let’s go!”
I
followed him and I realized that we were heading for the church, which was
about a mile away from the court house. On
the way there, he found time to lecture me gently about not telling my folks
right away my plans about the Air Force, and for getting angry at them. Hen, he emphasized to me that he was
definitely going to help me if I’d promise to let my family know about my plans
regarding the service, etc.
Of
course, I promised that I’d do so as soon as I’d straightened out the birth
certificate mess, not only because he wanted me to, but also because my old man
had to sign off on everything before the Air Force Examinations Board would even allow me to participate in the entrance
exams! When we arrived at the Church, the Father sat me down in his office and
after he inquired from me about the day, month, and year of my birth, he called
the custodian for the Church who at the time w was busy making candles in a
small annex close by, and he asked him to go downstairs where they kept the
Church archives and fetch the book of baptismal records for the year 1932, so
the book was retrieved and was placed in front of the Father, who, after he put
on his glasses, opened the book ad began searching for the record of my
baptism To our collective
disappointment, there was no such transaction recorded in the book; therefore,
I still was a man without a first name! But, he turned to me and with a
reassuring voice he said, “we are not ready to abandon ship, yet.” And, “what’s
the city Clerk’s name there at the city hall”
I replied, “The name is Peter and he knows me and my folks really well
on account of my father being good buddies with the Mayor
“Very
well”, he said, “One way or another we don't have time to determine where you
were baptized; we’ll find that out from your parents, later. Right now, I assume that you were baptized
and your people did not bother to register your first name with the city bureaucrats
so, we are going to do this now, retroactively!” And, that’s what happened! The priest
called Peter at the city hall and he got him to agree to play the game
the priest’s way. So, first he good father found a little empty
space in the baptismal records book, and
under the date of April 30, 1932, he entered the act of my christening, then he
proceeded to issue a certificate to City Hall witnessing that I was baptized on
such and such a date, and I was given the name of Demetrios! Peter at the City Hall, on the
basis of the certificate from the Church, went back 18 years in his books and
registered my first name, and I had my original birth certificate! That
afternoon when I returned home from the City Hall, I approached mother
and made inquiries about the circumstances surrounding my christening,
etc., at fist, she seemed quite
surprised that I was asking all these questions and she sort of attempted to
turn’t he tables on me and asked me why I was all of a sudden thing so curious
about my baptism, but my questions brought back memories of that, as she called it, “glorious” day, and
her surprise was overcome. She started
describing the events of that glorious day by showing me a group of picture of a seemingly very happy bunch of
people; in the center of the picture between my father and mother, there was a
man holding in his arms and infant who seemed to be th only little soul who did
not agree with what was going on around him because it was obvious that the
baby was forty days old, and minutes only after I had been dunked in the
colibithra, a large vessel full of water where the Orthodox Church simulates
the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River], and th place was the yard of the
famous monastery of the Madonna of “Demiova” up in the mountains which rise
precipitously east of my hometown.
Apparently
my parents, I suspect my Father ore than my Mother, were greatly overjoyed that
the third time was a charm and they got their wish for a “prince” after the two
“princesses” they had ahead of me, and they embarked on a long celebration to
mark my arrival. I was told that the christening festivities lasted three days
and that my father and his cronies ate, drank, and made merry for a whole week
following that! Is it any wonder that no
one thought to go back to the City Hall to register the baby when they got back
to town after that orgy? I will come
back later in this book, in some other chapter, to describe the reason for the
long celebrations and the peculiar attitudes of some Greek fathers when sons
are born to them and not daughters. I’ve
been gone from the place I was born for more than fifty years now and I only
have limited contact with people and current events in Greece;
however, I’m willing to bet that, to this day, nothing much has changed in this
respect in the old country!
By
the way, the monastery of Demiova where I was baptized was blown off the face
of the mountain by German army artillery during The Occupation. Gone were all the records, and all the
religious artifacts, some of which dated back to the Byzantine times. The Germans had announced that the monastery
was supporting resistance fighters and one day, they bombarded the place to
smithereens and set it on fire with their canons from Kalamata. That day is still vivid in my mind; I don’t
know if the place was rebuilt after the war.
At
any rate, the necessary paperwork was collected on time and after some family
squabbles and my adamant insistence on taking the entrance exams for the school;
my old man signed whatever he had to sign, and the papers were submitted to the
air force. That triggered the beginning
of the events which put me on the bus to Tatoi AFB on that October morning. Of
course, the time between my application for permission to take the exams and
the bus ride to the school, a period of four months from mid-June 1950 to
October 9th of that same year, was one of the most interesting and
trying times of my life up to that point.
That’s why I think it’s worth mentioning as part of my personal story.
Entrance Exams and other games in the summer of the year of our Lord of
1950!
Sending
he papers to the AF was, as I said, the beginning of a new set of worries,
expectations, hopes, and self doubts about the outcome of the effort to break
away from the dead end situations I was faced with in my hometown
Kalamata. I knew that my parents were
secretly praying that something would happen to upset the apple cart and force
me to forget all about the AF, however, they kept all those secret wishes to
themselves and they were trying very hard to show that they were willing to
help me accomplish my goal.
The
process by which I would get to the school started with the documents which
were already in. The next step would be
acceptance of my by the service to be a candidate. If accepted, I would have to go to Athens for
the various exams which consisted of medical screening, track, and field
events, qualifications, and finally, academic subjects which consisted of essay
type knockout written exams staring with
modern Greek composition and continuing with three subjects of math,
trig, algebra, analytic geometry, general physics, chemistry and geography.
Naturally,
after I sent the paperwork to the Air Force, I felt like I was sitting on red
hot coals, and every day I was living for the arrival of the mail, waiting for
the postman to deliver the good news of the start of my deliverance form
Kalamata! The good happening occurred
sometime in the final part of July when I was notified that I was accepted as a
candidate an was invited to proceed to Athens on such and such date and time to
report to the AF hospital to start the required medical screening. Up to that time, I was conveniently pushed
aside to the outer orbits of my memory the medicals and the possibility o f
flunking the doctors because of an orthopedic problem that I had acquired
during my junior and senior year I high school. And what was that problem? Well, nothing too serious just the fact that
due to lack of proper medical attention and ignorance, I came very close to
having my left arm amputated! Believe it
or not, in the span of tow years I fractured my left arm four times. First time, playing soccer, second during a
track and field event when I had a very awkward landing after a high jump,
third time darned soccer again This third time was really stupid because it
happened the same day they removed the cast from the second fracture! Yes, sir! In the morning the cast was removed
and in the afternoon the gang whispered sweet nothings in m ear and I followed
them to the soccer field. They said, we’ll be careful. Al in too was a little innocent fall, and
there I was. The same arm, the same bone, the same spot. I am about two miles
form home, and of course, there are no ambulances or telephones to call for
help. Cousin Soulis, who was the
organizer of the recreational activity that afternoon, was invited to help me
get home, but he decline! He said that
Aunt Helen, my mother, would give him hell for what happened. I walked the two miles home clinching my
teeth and getting in and out of fainting spells, and I got home where my father
blew a gasket and let me know in no uncertain terms what he thought of me!
The
first two times I was treated by some old lady practitioner in the art of
setting bones ( Dad broke his arms a total of seven times. The last time was thirty years ago. He feel down the steps leading to our
ravine. When my Mother went to pick him
up at the hospital; he was sitting on the end of a gurney with a group of
residents sitting at his feet listening intently, as Dad explained the many
ways to set a broken arm). This third time they took me to a hospital where
the put me under (have you ever breathed chloroform?)and the bone was set and a
cast installed. Then surprise! Surprise!
The cast was removed after about two months and we found out that the good
doctor who had worked on me screwed up! The bone was set alright, but at an
angle of about twenty degrees. Again
ignorance prevailed, and based on old women’s tales we forgot the doors and we
ended up with some charlatan at the other end of town. This guy almost did my
hand in. That SOB was putting a piece of
wood on the crooked part of my arm and then tied the whole thing really tight
hoping to straighten the bone that
way He kept doing this for about a month
and all this time, I was wearing long sleeved shirts, although it as summer,
because I wanted to hide my crooked arm.
In the meantime my entire left hand , starting from the shoulder, was
getting discolored and kind of thinner.
The procedure which was supposed to straighten the bone was choking
blood circulation in my arm and it had caused severe atrophy in my arm and
shoulder. My old man who was kind of
slow to admit that I was in trouble, finally decided to come with me during one
of the treatments, and he got in an argument with the voodoo doctor. We started for home not knowing what to do
next,, although Dad’s best buddy was a medical doctor and a good friend of our
family; all we had to do was to let him know what was happening. Again, Divine Providence came to the rescue! That very same morning while we were
returning home, who doe we run into? Old
good doctor Christos Coumandos!
After
we exchanged pleasantries, he inquired about what was bringing us to that part
of town, and why wanted to know why I was kind of favoring my left arm, and why
the long sleeves in 90 degree weather. My father mumbled something about my arm
and that made the doctor more suspicious; he literally ordered me to pull up by
sleeve. I still remember his reaction
when he saw my arm and heard the story of how it had gotten that way. On one
hand, he let my father have it, and at the same time, he told him to go home
while he grabbled me and led me directly to the hospital, where, within an
hour, I was in the operating room were my arm was fractured and reset by
another surgeon. My arm and shoulder had
suffered almost irreversible atrophy and now, a few months later, when I as
about to under go medical screening by the Airforce flight surgeons, the
atrophy was very much visible and I had legitimate fears that I would be cut
out for medial reasons and would participate in the big dance. Once more, the situation was evaluated, and
of course the thrust of my efforts was towards finding someone with the proper
connections to hive me a helping hand with the medical screening. This tie my
mother came to y rescue by remembering tat
long forgotten second or third cousin was a military doctor. relations in Athens were mobilized ad word came back that indeed
the uncle was a military doctor, and luck of all luck, e was an Airforce
doctor! So mother went to work and wrote
a litter to my new found uncle laying out the whole nine yards about how her
boy had his heart set on going to the Airforce school and about the arm problem
which could derail the boys lofty plans to join the service.
The
good doctor did go to the trouble of answering my mother’s letter, and he instructed
me to go and meet him at his home as soon as I arrived in Athens. Did I do that? No sir!
Partly because I washy, and partly because I was overwhelmed by the
whole thing ( small town boy being lost and getting homesick by the day!)
I kept postponing going to meet my uncle till it was to late. The medicals were taking place at the air
force general hospital in Kipseli, Athens,
where the candidates were reporting in by alphabetic order. The procedure was such that each candidate
would undergo the screening the various
medical departments , and at the end of
this ordeal, they would be interviewed by the chief fight surgeon and
his committee. This interview was the final event in the medicals phase of the
entrance exams. If one had any remarks
scribble din his medical file by any of the individual medical departments, the
committee would reexamine and accept or reject the candidate and there was no
appeal of their decision.
With
my last name starting with “T” I was in
the last group of candidates to report, the last few hundreds. Then, silly me,
I thought that if I waited to go through the orthopedics department onwards the
end of the day, maybe the doctor would be tired and perhaps I could squeak
through without anybody noticing my golden arm, and therefore, not having to
have any bad diagnosis in my file.
Of
course, my thinking was as good as a hot summer
night’s dream, and as soon as a nurse positioned me in front of an X-ray
machine to take chest x-rays, she called a nearby doctor and the two of them
had a brief pow wow which resulted in a guilty verdict remark in my file. Utter devastation! Now what?
The next step was the audience front of the flight surgeon’s committee
where I knew my uncle was the chairman of the board, but I did not even know
what he looked like and it was too late to try to get in touch with him or
anybody! I knew I was in a terrible fix,
but there was nothing else to do but put on a brae face ad walk into the
chamber of the Supremes and face whatever consequences were in store for me.
The
board consisted of seven members and they were all sitting on a dais where I
guessed that the chairman was the guy in the middle because he was kind of
older than the other members; he had more stripes on his epaulets indicting
higher rank, and he was flanked by the rest of the members, three on each side.
So, there was the uncle. But how can I get a signal to him? I was sure as hell I could not just say, “hi uncle! I’m cousin Helen’s boy; please take care of
my problem!” As I realized later there was a danger that it was possible to go
through the process without him even seeing my file with my name on it. My problem was an orthopedic problem and the
orthopedic surgeon of the committee would review the problem listed in the file
and could make a decision without consulting any other member or the chief
surgeon. Fortunately for me, the doctor
who looked in my file came down from the throne and he started examining my
suspect arm, trying to establish if I had enough strength and control with my
arm. Then, the miracle happened.
The
doc who was playing with my arm turned to the chairman of the committee and he
said, “Sir,” is it possible to take a look at this problem here?” M uncle came down from the dais and joined
the other doctor who handed him my file, and after they exchanged some doctor talk
about the case, he sort of moved to the side and let my uncle examine my arm. Up to that moment, my uncle had not even seen
the candidate’s name in the file, but I decided that my moment was right there
and with all the audacity that I could mast under such taxing circumstances, I
took advantage of a split second when he was by my side and being careful not
to be heard by anyone else, I sort of whistled into his ear, I am Dmitri,
Helen’s boy. Please help me!” You should have seen the surprised expression
on that man’s face! He recovered quickly and he told me not to
worry while at the same time, he scolded me for not going to his home to meet
him ahead of time. Of course, I was again invited to visit with him and his
family at home, but again because of the exams I did not make it. The next time we met I was a three month old
freshman cadet in the school, and he was on an inspection tour of the
school. After hi s official duties he
arranged through my squadron commander to see me in private, nad that’s where I
literally got what I had coming from him.
Naturally, I did visit with him and his family many times during my ears
in the school and many times later after I turned from my training in the
states.
Now,
some people might think that what I did in order to get through the med exams
was not exactly kosher. I don’t know The truth is that I served in the air fore of
my country for twelve years, and I never had a sick day in my career! Then,
too, I remember what happened to cousin Soulis.
He went to the Greek West Point, but to get there, e had to use, with
the cooperation of some people in the right places somebody else’s chest X-rays
because as an infant he had a bout with bronchitis and that would show in the
and he would never have made it through.
Well, do you want to now hwat happened to Soulis? He served with distinction in the Greek
infantry for thirty five years, and retired with the rank of a three star
general. Unfortunately, my dear cousin
and best boyhood friend died in April 2003 at the age of 73 The cause of his death had nothing to do with
bronchitis.
The
next phase in the process of the exams was the track and field event. This part of the entrance games did not bother
me. In high school, I had been a member
of the track and filed team and my personal record in the events that the air
force required us to compete in were far superior to the ones required by the
admission regulations. I literally breezed through the evens, 100m dash, 1500m,
run, high jump and triple jump, but one of the people who were running the
games for the air force was a buy named Christos Madicas, and his presence
there reared some interesting situations for me later in the service. Mr. Madicas was very well known in Greece because
he was one of the finalists in the 100m dash in the 1936 Berlin Olympics and he
happened to be the track and field coach for the air force. Also, he was doubling up, I later found out,
as a recruiter for one of the biggest athletic clubs in Greece. During
the athletic events of the entrance exams he would keep his eyes peeled for nay
talent he would spot in the incoming classes of the air force schools and he
would nudge all the talent he could lay his hands on to the club of
Panathinaikos, or Pan Athenian Athletic Club.
I
cooperated with the coach in whatever was required for my participation in the air
force track meets and the Greek armed forces annual Olympics but due to the
military school schedule I did not participate in civilian clubs competition. That fact resulted I many frictions and
disagreements with my coach, and even with some big brass of the air force, who
wanted me to get involved more with athletics, and less with my normal military
and academic duties in the school.
Had
I listened to them, I could have a very easy life going through the school;
however, I was cognizant of the fact that academics and military conduct would
determine my seniority for life in the service, and at that time, the main thing in my mind was my
future career in the air force. We were,
however, capable of pranks and often teased civilian instructors. Literature was not our favorite class, and we
wrote an original proem about our prof and his beloved fig tree, with a refrain
that suggested where he could plant his fig tree. We also spent time twanging
rubber bands to annoy another prof.
All other factors
being equal if you are at the top of the class come graduation, time means a
lot for future promotions and assignments. It was not unusual after a few years
from graduation to have people of that
same class holding ranks separated by as many as three grades because of their
ranking in the class graduation . Of course,
if you let cynicism dictate your thinking you may at times be absolutely right
if you think that sucking up and being a flatterer to your commander ad his
lady would get you the same things. That’s the Airforce for you. And Life.
I felt great admiration for the candor of one officer’s wife, an
American woman frustrated with rules that allowed the military to interfere
with her home life. When brought before
a committee of officers to discuss the matter, she called them all
fascists. “Madame,” one officer stated
indignantly, “This is the birthplace of Democracy!”
“It might have
been her birth place, but she grew up and left!” shouted back the irate wife.
My Dad had a
distinguished career with the Royal Hellenic Air Force, and even stood
attention as late King Constantine inspected the troops. He told many stories, including some involving
Turkish officers, with whom he became steadfast friends. He also spent time with the US Air Force at Scott Field, near St. Louis. My father in law, Italo Milani, was also
there at one point. He had many adventures, and gave up his seat on
the bus he was riding to an older African American woman. It was 1953.
During this
time, he met up with the Gramatis family in St. Louis,
which led to him meeting my mother in Rock
island, at her home on 21st avenue. The joke was that my Mother’s sister, Aunt
Connie, saw Dad first, but that my Mother, Clara, pushed her off the porch. Connie denied this ever happened. She was simply not amused.
They met at my
Uncle George’s tenth birthday party.
When my mother died in 2008, I received a letter from a little girl who
had been th that party. My future
parents hit it off, and wrote to each other for seven years. Their letters fill a large suitcase, carefully
curated by Dad. My three uncles and Connie
also wrote, along with my grandparents.
My grandparents loved Dad as if he were their own son.
Finally, in 1959
my mother, grandfather, and George,
sailed on The Olympia,
a ship from the White Star line, like
the Titanic. Ultimately, they married in
Greece,
with air force officers, one my future godfather, in attendance. It was a beautiful wedding, lavish and
formal. My parents lived in Greece two
years or so, and I cam along in Ju.1960.I have pictures of standing on the Acropolis
with my mother.
It took Dad nearly two years to get out of the Royal Hellenic Air Force. My folks wrote to
the Queen of Greece, the President
of the United States,
senators, and congressional representatives.
My mother and I had come home to my grandparents’ house a year or so before. My uncle Tom, an artist, picked ups up at
the airport. My mother said I reached
out to him, and it was love at first sight.
Tom and Jim, my older uncles, were close to Dad and to us for the rest
of their lives. I remember it was
December 1 when he came home, like it is today.
Mom and Dad pulled me on my little wooden sled. I wore a red snow suit. It had also snowed,
and it was only my second snow fall. It
didn’t snow in Athens.
My mother died
in 2008, my Dad in 2017. I promised I would get his memoir out for
him; Dad I have kept my promise. May
their memories, and those of the rest of my family, be eternal.
