February is a time for romance, though my
story took place in early March, 1974.
I joined the Navy at nineteen to see the
world. My first duty station (and last as it turned out) was at the Naval
Communications Station in Nea Makri, Greece. How exciting, a foreign country
with ruins, columns, sheep dawdling in the road, who could ask for more?
My very first day, I was chatting with my
sponsor near the front gate. A motorcycle and rider roared onto the base. The
man stared at me. He took off his helmet, revealing thick dark brown hair, and
large brown eyes.
I asked my sponsor who the man was.
She said, “That’s George Parkinson. He’s
trouble, stay away from him.”
Trouble? What more does a California girl
growing up in the 60’s have to hear? Plus, there was that motorcycle.
Days later in the Zeus Club, I was among a
throng of young men far from home with few American women to date. I was the
first radioman female to be stationed at Nea Makri. Only two other single young
women lived on the base at this time.
I had Singapore Slings lined up in front of
me the moment I sat down.
George Parkinson was there, laughing,
talking with everyone. He’d been on base for three years before I’d arrived.
Then I heard his horrible secret. He was married.
When I finally got to know him, he said he
was legally separated, his wife back in the states. Instead of a dastardly
rogue, he was shy and good at heart.
I joined him in his motorcycle group,
flying down the road past ancient sites, Mount Olympus, Delphi, Sparta, through
fragrant orange blossoms, eating calamari, thick brown bread and tomatoes
swimming in olive oil, along with big hunks of creamy feta cheese.
Only two months later, when he asked me to
marry him, I said yes.
Then I was called before the Senior Master
Chief, the highest enlisted woman stationed there, and told: “You know he’s
married, don’t you?” The same with the female ensign, the same dire warning: I
was dating a married man.
Finally, George contacted his mother back
in Pennsylvania, she obtained a lawyer, and plans were in place for his
divorce.
Of course it took a year. George and I did
the unthinkable, we’d moved in together. My doctor told me to go off my birth
control pills because they suppressed my ovaries, and guess what, soon I had a
bundle of love on the way—and still no divorce in sight.
One day driving to the base, a Greek man
decided to pass me on his motorcycle and smashed into the back of my little VW.
He crashed, broke his leg and since I was American it was automatically my fault.
I had to go to court and convince the Greek Judges why I shouldn’t be thrown in
jail. My baby would be born in lock-up. Fortunately, they believed my story and
the case was dismissed.
Then Turkey and Greece attacked the island
of Cypress, both wanting possession. America refused to take sides in the
conflict. Greek students rioted over the American military being on their soil.
Each morning we had to check under our car’s wheel wells to make certain no
bombs had been planted. The US Fleet was ordered to evacuate Athens. I worked
in the Message Center, and frightening warnings of attacks on Americans buzzed
over the teletypes.
At last everything settled down, George’s
divorce came through, and I planned a wedding in three days.
I can’t say my adventure overseas was
boring, and George and I will soon celebrate our 42nd wedding anniversary.
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