Aegean Sea, July 22, 1943
The Greek destroyer Kanaris slowed. Her aft turret fired the last shots at a hillside in her homeland. A small boat was lowered and moments later, strong armed men began to dig their oars into the wine dark sea.
Seven minutes later, Major Jaroshek was standing on the deck of the Greek destroyer. Someone thrusted a mug of dark coffee topped off with a shot or two of something that tasted like the spirits of home; the licorice hints brought him back to the Mon Valley for a moment. He had to lift the mug with his left arm as any movement of his right shot pain through his entire body. The early pre-dawn strike had gone well. The Italian and German defenders had scrambled from the airfields near Athens. The Corsairs and Seafires had numbers and altitude. An eighty seven aircraft furball started even as the Avengers, Tarpons and Dauntlesses pounded the already battered airfields that medium bombers from Crete, Rhodes and Cyprus had been visiting for weeks. He was claiming three kills, his wingman had one more, and the rest of the squadron had even more.
And then as the air cleared, he banked left and brought the diminished squadron on a course for home, trailing the bombers. He was almost out of danger as the Aegean Sea was readily visible in front of him. Suddenly, an anti-aircraft battery flung a few dozen shells skyward. One exploded just in front and slightly below his aircraft. The engine began to fail, and he had no chance to make it home to the carrier. He found the Greek heavy cruiser and her escorting destroyers beginning their bombardment, circled around to seaward, and ditched two hundred yards away from the guard destroyer. At least the water had been warm as he treaded and waited for a rapid rescue.