The mournful strains of rembetika music faded into the night as Captain Tsatsos stepped outside the quayside taverna and lit his hand-rolled cigar. It was getting late, and darkness had fallen across the port of Piraeus. He drew a deep breath and looked past the row of shipyard warehouses to the docks. Anchored at the pier was the Independence, waiting to make her run to the Luftwaffe air base on the island of Kythira.
Tsatsos looked at his watch. Ten after nine. Curfew was at ten. Andros wasn’t expected to arrive until shortly thereafter, when the entire harbor would be blacked out in the event of Allied night bombing.
Tsatsos strolled along the quay to the Independence, whistling softly in the dim light. The crew were dallying about with the cranes and the last remaining drums of fuel, trying to look as busy as they could. But Tsatsos could sense their restlessness on his way up the gangway. When he finally reached the bridge, his first mate looked worn and hunted.
“We’ve been stalling for as long as we can,” Karapis reported anxiously. “Lieutenant Schneider from the port authority is demanding to know what the holdup is.”
“Lieutenant Schneider.” Tsatsos spat on the deck. “My favorite port officer.”
Karapis said, “I told him you were drinking at the taverna, that you weren’t aware our departure time had been moved up.”
“And our cargo?”
“Even with the delays, the last stores are ready to be loaded,” Karapis replied, “all except one.”
Tsatsos nodded. “Andros.”
“Do you think he’ll make it?”
Tsatsos shrugged. “Lights out soon,” he observed grimly. “If Christos comes, we want to be sure we’re still in port.”
Karapis, clearly losing patience, replied, “But the crew has stalled too long already.”
Tsatsos turned his gaze a few piers away to the ghostly Turtle Dove, emptied of her stores and crew until her departure in the morning, or so it seemed. “What about our other friends?”
“Mitchell Rassious, his wife, daughter, and mother-in-law are all safely stowed aboard the Turtle Dove,” Karapis reported. “We got them aboard before the last consignments were unloaded this evening and the SS guard detail moved in. It’s we who will be in trouble if we don’t cast off.”
Tsatsos could see that his exasperated first mate could wait no longer. “Come, then, Karapis, let us talk to our friend the port officer.”
They didn’t have to travel far, because at that moment an annoyed Lieutenant Schneider walked onto the bridge. He was an oily, sniveling, and pretentious landlubber who had developed an abrupt passion for the sea the previous fall when he discovered that his battalion would be moving on from Athens to the cold Russian front. How he finagled his new post was a source of endless speculation among the Greek dockers.
“So that’s what smells so foul in here,” said the German, frowning at the cigar in Tsatsos’s mouth. “You’re smoking hashish.”
Tsatsos shrugged. “Arrest me, Lieutenant. Then who will pilot your stolen wares?”
Schneider was still new to this miserable job and apparently had decided that insubordinate old dogs like Tsatsos weren’t worth the trouble. “You’re going to Kythira tonight,” the port officer said with an authoritative voice. “But I see you have no gun crew or escort flotilla.”
“Yes, it seems friends are in short supply for these little night runs to the Kythira air base.” Tsatsos took a puff on his cigar and smiled. “Perhaps it has something to do with the highly explosive barrels of fuel we have on board.” He tapped his cigar and with delight watched the German’s eyes anxiously follow the flickering ashes to the floor. “Why do you ask? Would you like to join us?”
“No, not at all.” Schneider sniffed. “In fact, the port authority has cleared you for departure. For over an hour now. You’re to leave at once.”
Tsatsos glanced at Karapis. “But of course. Just as soon as we load our last stores and fix that troublesome leak in the boiler room. You will check on it, Karapis?”
It took a few seconds for the first mate to understand. “Yes, sir, of course, sir. I’ll go down right now,” said Karapis, and left the bridge.
Tsatsos looked at Schneider. “Perhaps you would like to wait here with me while we test the leak. Our method is foolproof, you know.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” Tsatsos replied. “We fire up the engines, and if we don’t blow up, we know the leak has been fixed.”
“Thank you,” said Schneider, “but other duties demand my attention.”
Tsatsos noticed that Schneider was looking over his shoulder. He turned and looked out the window. At the end of the harbor, two Kübelwagen carrying a dozen SS guards emerged onto the docks. They drove past the quayside warehouses, tavernas, and kafeneons, rounding the harbor on their way toward the pier. There, they set up a checkpoint. Tsatsos looked at Schneider. “What’s going on?”
“Extra security precautions for the blackout,” Schneider explained. “Our orders are that nobody leaves here until tomorrow morning. Nobody except you. Now, off with you. What if the RAF bombed us and we couldn’t get our planes off the ground for lack of fuel?”
“Why, that would be tragic.”
“Yes, it would, Captain Tsatsos, for all of us.”
Tsatsos nodded sympathetically. “Indeed, your vacation would be over, and you’d have to report to the Russian front.”
Schneider left the bridge without another word, leaving Tsatsos alone to enjoy a commanding view of the harbor. He looked across the black blanket of water to the city. The moon hovered over the Acropolis, the Parthenon casting an ominous glow.
In a few minutes, Karapis returned to the bridge with the helmsman and engineer behind him, their faces awash with fear. Tsatsos knew he could stall no longer and heaved a deep sigh.
“Fire up the engines,” he told them. “Tell the crew to prepare to cast off.”