oil covered with sand, dirt and seaweed. These had apparently washed ashore from shipping in Eastern Mediterranean. We discovered that with some effort these globules could be made to burn pretty well. Unfortunately, the fire emitted an ugly, thick, black smoke. Frank had placed a grill he had brought along over the fire but it was obvious anything exposed to the oily fumes would be inedible. I figured this wasn't worth the effort, we might as well eat cold C-rations, and went for a walk. As I was leaving someone had produced what looked like a sheet of corrugated aluminum roofing material.
This was a beautiful, wild and empty all blue sea on one side and sand dunes on the other. So when I thought I smelled grilled beefsteak, I figured I must be hallucinating. But that's exactly what Frank had cooking on a short sheet of metal over the petroleum globule fire, designed so that the fumes circled around but not onto the food. Those steaks were fantastic, thick and juicy. No C-rations ever contained anything like that. Where had they come from? Frank explained that he had bartered for them from the commodore's steward on board the flagship. I had never seen cuts of meat like that at our shipboard officer's mess. Did Frank trade some of his prize sausages for the steak? I never found out.

The other incident occurred on the south coast of the island of Crete. Our ship anchored a mile or two offshore and most of the platoon, about eighteen of us departed in LCPL early one morning to survey a fairly large beach. This was to be a one-day event and we planned to return late in the afternoon. We only took the equipment we needed for the survey and two or three partially used boxes of C-rations in case anyone got that hungry. The day started out sunny and pleasant with little surf and easy landing conditions. We divided into different groups to survey both near shore, water and the terrain on and behind the beach. It was a lovely day but one of the Mediterranean’s famed Sirocco winds were brewing up. By early afternoon the wind picked up substantially and there were several lines of surf making it difficult for the LCPL to land and depart the beach. We decided to abort the operation, get everyone together, and return to the ship while we still could. About this time three things happened: (1) we received a scratchy radio contact they had lost their sole, primary anchor and were departing the scene, (2) we observed the ship to be gradually disappearing over the horizon, and (3) we lost all further radio contact.

The beach itself was deserted except for some old WWII pillboxes with German graffiti, but about a mile east was a hillside and small village. We headed over there the to the largest building on a bluff looking out over the sea and tiny, man-made harbor, turned out to be a Monastery. The monks greeted us graciously and invited us to stay and spend the night in their courtyard. They didn't speak English and we didn't speak Greek but somehow we communicated. At this time, from our high perch we could the LCPL making its attempt to enter the harbor. The only entrance was a narrow opening in the rock jetty on the east side near shore. The surf was rolling in and piling up in spectacular clouds of spray. It was a moment of high anxiety. PO3 Roger Bronson, Coxswain really earned his pay this day. He gunned the LCPL parallel to lines of surf approaching the entrance, rolling crazily, and perfectly time his entry into the harbor on the backside of a huge wave, then made an immediate left turn and reversed engines to avoid wiping out the local fishing fleet or piling the LCPL up on the rocks. After this excitement, we took a walk around the village. There was a small cafe with outdoor tables, a tiny store and several houses. Of course we had no money to buy anything. Returning to the monastery, the

Vol 4 lets3

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