Veterans Stories: A Tale of the Gun

“This was my PaPo’s pistol,” My Son-in-Law, Minas said, handing me the old weapon.

I turned the old pistol over, pulled back the slide, and whistled at it like some one would a pretty girl at the beach. The bluing was worn off in many places, and the hand grips were almost worn smooth. It was a Colt 1911. In many ways, it was just like the pistol I’d carried as an MP. I knew it was a formidable weapon.

It was also, the oldest 1911 I’d ever seen, much less handled.

“Your PaPo? He was named Minas also?” I asked.

“Yes. This is the weapon he carried in Greece during World War two.”

“What was he doing in Greece?”

Minas looked around like he was about to impart some deep, dark secret my way. “Do you know what the OSS was?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was the forerunner to our CIA.”

It made sense he’d be working in Greece and fighting the Nazi’s there. A second generation American, he was the son of Greek parents. He spoke the language fluently and knew their ways. He’d volunteered for the military, but when his heritage and command of the Greek language was noted, other people had other plans for him.

He was soon taken into a rather shady organization where he never wore a uniform, but was still expected to act and preform like a member of the military. There, he learned the fine art of being a spy.

A few months later, he was on a small raft. A couple of sailors were rowing him to a shore where a pre arranged signal had been seen. Behind him, the submarine that had brought him this far disappeared into the darkness.

A few minutes later, the raft grounded itself against the shore. He grabbed the small bundle he’d brought with him and checked for the pistol under his clothing. It was still there.

“Good luck,” one of the sailors said shaking his hand.

“Thanks,” he replied, getting out of the raft and wading through the water to the shore.

Several men materialized out of the darkness. He hoped they were Greek Partisan’s and not German soldiers. One of them spoke to him and a wave of relief swept over him. It was the expected challenge and he responded.

The Greeks gathered around him, telling him to follow them and they led him to one of the their many hideouts. And just like that, Minas Kavallieros became a one man invasion force in the country of Greece.

A lot of people have a funny idea about what spies do. Weaned on James Bond and Man from Uncle, most people think of a spy as some kind of superman. Truth be told, most spies are told to keep a low profile. In Minas’ case, he became part of the community. He worked with the Greek men and women doing the jobs they did. But his real job with the OSS was to gather intelligence and send that back to the allies. Other times, he participated in the partisan war against the Germans.

“Now, there’s someone who I wished I could have talked to,” I said. The insights he must have had and the sheer terror of knowing what would happen if he were caught must have been staggering. The punishment for being a spy is almost always quick execution. About the best a captured spy could ask for was which ear the bullet went in.

Then, as retaliation, the Nazi’s would probably have burnt the village to the ground and killed most everything that moved there.

“He told me a couple of stories,” my Son-in-Law said.

“I’d like to hear them.”

“Well, you know that the partisans didn’t have the best of gear.”

“I can imagine.” Most guerilla fighters pick up the weapons of their enemies. In the opening phases they’re often poorly armed. My son told me a story of fighting some Taliban, only to find some were armed with muzzle loaders. It a cinch they’d have happily traded up for an AK or AR platform weapon if they could get one.

“One day, they hit a German convoy. It had several trucks and where they hit it was on a series of hills. The road snaked around the hills, and in one place, the road snaked into a small draw caused by two hills. This allowed my PaPo and the partisans he was with the set up a nice trap. As the small convoy snaked through, the partisans at the front would engage the enemy. The one’s at the rear would do the same. The idea was to knock out the vehicles in the head and the tail and box in the middle. The area allowed them to set up the perfect ambush.

“My PaPo was with this one guy who had a grenade launcher. The way he described it, it sounds a lot like a modern RPG. They were firing up the guys in the vehicles and light tracks and winning. The guy with my PaPo fired his grenade launcher at one truck, The grenade passed through the cab and killed the driver. The vehicle turned a hard right and drove off the road to smash into a small tree that stopped it cold.

“The fight was over within minutes, and not a single German was left alive. When my PaPo and the partisans came off the hill to gather up what they could, He had his pistol in his hand and checked out each vehicle.

“When they came to the truck the grenade had been launched at, it was obvious the driver was dead. The grenade had come through the window, struck the driver and the head and effectively decapitated him.

“They went to check out the back of the truck to see what it had been carrying.

“My PaPo said what he saw when they opened the back, frightened him. The truck was filled with landmines and TNT. Had the grenade struck the bed of the truck instead of passing almost harmlessly through the cab of the truck, the detonation might have set off the explosives in the back. The blast would have been huge. With the geometry of the area they were in the shockwave might have killed not only the Germans, but some of the partisans as well.

“Counting themselves lucky, the partisans load up the captured weapons and supplies on carts, mules, horses, and the strong backs of other partisans.”

“Wow,” I said, trying to imagine the scene. “That’s a story.”

“You haven’t heard anything yet,” Minas said. “They were on another mission. This one was pure intelligence gathering. There was a huge German convoy. It was way to large for them to attack on the move. It consisted of tanks, half tracks, trucks, and staff cars. The Germans were making a major move and the allies wanted to know numbers.

“So, he and a couple of other partisans were watching the convoy pass. They were well hidden in bushes and from their hiding spot had been counting and cataloguing what was passing. They had been there for some time when a staff car with several German officers pulls over right in front of them.

“One of them get’s out and approaches their hiding place. PaPo had the pistol pointed right at the officer as he approached. It didn’t bode well that an enemy soldier had stopped near them and was approaching where they were hiding. PaPo tracked him with the pistol. The officer seemed unconcerned and acted like there wasn’t a hostile force within a hundred miles of him. He came right up to the bush where they were hiding, opened his fly, and began relieving himself all over PaPo and the hidden men. Finished, he closed his fly, turned and walked away. He rejoined his friends in the staff car and they drove off with the rest of the convoy.”

“A good case where it’s better to be pissed on that off,” I said.

“True.”

“So, how did he get the gun?”

“He said that they (meaning the OSS) told him it was his. He gave it to my father who has now given it to me.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m putting it in a box. I’ll clean it and do a function check once a year and hang onto it. It’s a piece of history that I’m lucky to have.”