The amphibious assault on Pythagorion, Samos's ancient capital, got underway at midday while the air battle remained still undecided. Constantinou had made the decision to accompany his troops on the first landing, possibly to boost morale, possibly because that he believe that fortune was smiling on him. It was obvious that this landing would in no way prove as easy as the one they'd achieved on Patmos.
(Evidence of Greco-Soviet ties had begun to mount at this point, but nobody yet knew what those ties were.)
Several Turkish 122mm guns were firing directly on the Greek troops being ferried in by landing craft. Geysers of water shot up in so many places that nobody escaped being splashed. One landing craft was destroyed. It flew into a thousand fragments, and its men were hurled into the sea. Their wrenching screams made for an unsettling reminder of the horror of war as another landing craft rescued the survivors.
Constantinou surveyed the wreckage behind them and gravely shook his head. It was the only reaction he registered.
While the General's landing craft were severely buffeted by the artillery-roiled waters, no more shells came close to them.
As they approached, the small harbor area was full of smoke; a dock and the Liberian freighter, Regulus, were in flames, both having taken hits during an earlier air raid designed to soften up Turkish positions prior to the landing.
The first contingents to make their way ashore moved fast to take cover within the town itself, which in normal times had a population of 2,300. The most intense barrage came down from clumps of cypresses overlooking the town. A Skyhawk screamed down over the cypresses and dropped a payload on the Turkish positions hidden there. Instantly the trees disintegrated in feverish red flames, and the firing from that position stopped.
Inside the town proper, inside a narrow passageway only wide enough to accommodate a horse-drawn cart, a platoon of Greek troops, under the leadership of Master Sergeant Gelon Pappas, armed with M-16s and hand-held rockets, made their way towards some spiky bushes and wild olive trees that proliferated on a crest overlooking Pythagorion.
At first Pappas's men were able to proceed without opposition, but as they ascended the slope, they were spotted. A withering fusillade rained down on them. The Turks had installed a machine gun emplacement inside a ruined church behind the bushes and olive trees.
There appeared to be no way for the Greek platoon to take the church without suffering large losses. The machine gun fire held them at bay, and after a time they were ordered to retreat back into the shelter of the narrow passageway which ran through a no-man's land.
Because of the heavy cloud layer, darkness developed earlier than usual on this day. Despite the fading light,, however, there was no letup in the ferocity of the battle for Pythagorion, and detonating bombs and flares kept giving the sky a ghostly brightness. The electricity was off in the port, maybe intentionally, maybe because of an accidental blast at the generating plant. Between explosions, the port was totally dark, with only an occasional candle flickering behind a shade or shutter. Upon occupying the island, the Turks had mandated a dusk-to-dawn curfew, but even in those sectors recaptured by the Greeks, the people were undoubtedly just as happy to remain out of sight in the security of their homes.
Street fighting continued as Turkish and Greek forces blundered into each other. Often these skirmishes would be broken off only minutes after they were joined, suggesting that the antagonists were more interested in letting their presence be known than in actually risking their lives.
One thing was clear: the Greeks had managed to establish a salient on the north coast of the island just east of the capital of Vathy, close to the Monastery of Zoodochos Pigi. The monastery, located on the summit of a pine-covered mountain, commanded an impressive position on the island. By occupying it, the Greeks would effectively be able to seize control over the eastern road to the capital, making its capture that much more likely.
The excitement of the day's events had thrown Constantinou into a state of agitation. One minute he was poring over topographical maps of the island, the next he was issuing a string of commands to platoons of aides who came and went with haste bordering on panic.
"In half an hour we go to the monastery," Constantinou said. "I wish to personally supervise its seizure. We go by helicopter."
There was no choice but to go by air. The road to Zoodochos Pigi skirted Vathy, and the Turks had it blockaded.
The war was not going quite as well in Karlovassay. Hand-to-hand combat had ensued there for two hours. Then at nightfall the Greeks broke off. The attack was renewed the next day.
Casualties in Karlovassay were heavy, unfortunately. A quick inspection of a villa testified to that grim assessment. That villa had earlier been occupied by Turkish officers; now that they'd been driven out, the villa had been converted into a field hospital. Every five or ten minutes a new batch of wounded would arrive from another part of the island, thus all three floors of the structure were filled with men on stretchers. Many needed emergency surgery, and a team of doctors tried its best to keep up with the caseload in a makeshift operating room located in what had once been a rather lavish dining room. The stone floors were slippery with blood and leaking serum. Groans and screams filled the rooms, while outside the constant thud of artillery hinted at more injury and death to come.
With all the blood and dirt it was hard to distinguish the Turkish soldiers from the Greeks. "To me, they all appeared the same---young, scared, and hurt," said Alexander Haig who had visited the villa at that time. "Most of all, they seemed unable to comprehend their fate."
(Greek army doctors tending to a wounded comrade during fighting on Samos, April 13, 1982)
A rocket whined perilously close to the villa, and when it went off, the walls shuddered and plaster cascaded down on the wretched men, caking them with a later of white that made them look like ghosts.
Finding it hard to watch so much misery for long, Constantinou ran to a helicopter that awaited him on one of the undamaged docks on the port. The craft was a model that many Americans had heard about but had never seen before---a helicopter gunship known in NATO circles as the Hind, the code word for a craft designed by the Soviet Military design bureau. Equipped with both underwing armament and a four-barrel, large caliber machine gun in its undernose turret, it could carry a maximum load of eight troops. Constantinou's Hind was an advanced model Hind-D, being used anywhere outside the Soviet orbit except in Libya.
One of two things had brought this state-of-the-art Soviet craft into use here: either the Soviets had decided to initiate a massive supply of weaponry to the Greeks in response to the Aegean crisis or else they'd been secretly selling this weaponry to them over a period of time. It was the latter possibility that was more likely. A sudden massive supply effort on the part of the Soviets would surely have been hard to accomplish without attracting the attention of U.S. and NATO intelligence. Spread out over a year or several months, and executed ingeniously enough, such a buildup might not attract much notice at all, and, in fact, it did not.
(Gen. Achilles Constantinou's "Chariot of the Gods", the Soviet-made Hind-D gunship)
EXCERPT FROM A DIALOGUE BETWEEN U.S. SECRETARY OF STATE ALEXANDER HAIG AND GENERAL ACHILLES CONSTANTINOU, APRIL 13, 1982:
HAIG: This is a Soviet gunship, general. What is it doing in Greece? How have they aided you? And why?
CONSTANTINOU: We favor good relations with the United States, of course, and we are against the communists. But we do not turn away from help when we need it.
Constantinou's attitude had changed over the last few days. He would no longer make reference to a modified military response to the Turkish invasion, he said nothing about compromise at the bargaining table, nor did he discount the chances of Greek success on the battlefield. Two things had served to alter his thinking. The vote at the UN was the more significant; like all his countrymen, Constantinou was extremely resentful that the United States had chosen to side with the Turks. But his secret meeting with a KGB agent named Koshkin Valentin had also had great impact. Since his conversation with the Russian, the General refrained from any kind of criticism of the Soviets.
The Hind-D lifted off at half-past ten at night, and while it veered off the dock and out to sea it drew sporadic artillery fire from Turkish positions above the town. Rather than taking the most direct route, over land, the pilot had wisely decided to proceed over water around the periphery of the island. Until they came within sight of the monastery, they drew no further fire from Turkish artillery on the shore.
As they traveled inland, down below it sounded as if an earthquake was in progress; Turkish rockets whistled repeatedly over the pine tops into the valley that lay beneath the monastery while the Greeks retaliated by sending artillery shells thudding into the hillside. Lightning-like flashes radiated a weird bluish yellow light that cast the ancient crenellated walls of Zoodochos Pigi into sharp relief.
The noise worsened, became more concussive, as the helicopter descended, banking toward the valley where the Greek troops had taken up position and from where they were attempting to stage their assault.
The craft came down on a patch of ground adjacent to a vineyard that produced some eminent wines. It was obvious that not many new wines would be forthcoming for some time; even in the darkness, the devastation of the vineyards was obvious.
As soon as the helicopter set down, its passengers scrambled out and, keeping low, headed to where the main force of Greek troops was concentrated. As they raced past the vineyard to the foot of the monastery's hill, people could be heard shouting at each other without making themselves heard over the amazing din. Everywhere radios crackled with orders and reports from the forward positions.
For the most part, nobody could make out the monastery; all that was visible was the hill leading p to it and its mantle of pines. Tanks were drawn up in the fields to supplement the artillery. American M60A1 tanks and Soviet T-72 tanks were both being employed, more than a dozen involved. Most of the self-propelled howitzers and mortars were threading their way through the tangle of vineyards to the southeast of the hill, and from time to time spurts of fire originated from that area. A series of explosions erupted above, charging the sky with a toxic light and great swirls of smoke that rose far above the spires and rooftops of the monastery compound. Nonetheless, Turkish fire from the summit continued to pound the assailants with relentless fury.
The punishing fire soon stopped the Greek tank column dead. Three of the lead tanks were destroyed; those behind could not proceed any farther unless the wreckage was cleared and the opposing batteries taken out.
The entire slope leading up to the monastery was now bright red with fires. Flames leaped from pine tree to pine tree even as the attacking troops moved up into the wooded terrain with orders to isolate and neutralize enemy artillery positions and machine gun nests. How anyone breathed through the smoke, let alone see where he was going that night, remains to be seen.
At 2:00 in the morning the battle showed no signs of letting up. The monastery and the hill below it were still taking a pounding, but despite this and the bombing raids, Turkish guns were continue to hamper the Greeks' efforts to advance through the valley and overrun positions on the slope.
Periodically, in a belated attempt to aid the beleaguered Turks, Turkish Phantoms made runs over the valley, harassing Greek troops and artillery with bombs and 20mm multibarreled guns. One of the Phantoms was hit by antiaircraft guns, but the others were able to slow the forward thrust of the Greek attack.
A mobile generator supplied the light in Constantinou's tent, and three tabletop radios blasted simultaneously, producing an astonishing garble. Aides, weary and covered with sweat, attempted to brief the general on the latest developments, but he seemed barely to be listening to them.
A communique had been received from the Turkish commander on the mountain. He expressed the wish to have a cease fire. But why? Was he finding it difficult to hold out?
Although Constantinou refused to admit it, the struggle for the monastery proved too costly for both sides. The Turks could likely continue to defend the site for several more days, while the Greeks could eventually secure it by cutting off enemy supply lines and starving them out. But for the Greeks that would mean committing too many troops for too long a time, diverting them from action on other parts of the island and possibly allowing time for the Turks to reinforce their positions in Vathy.
Constantinou had made a potentially grave error when he'd decided to take the monastery in the first place.
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