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Today is September 7, 1999. I mention
this to give the reader some perspective of my state of mind as I try to
recall the events that occurred during the waning months of 1944, almost
55 years ago.
We left San Francisco the day before
Thanksgiving in 1944, detoured to Pearl Harbor and lingered there for a
week or more. Finally, a convoy was assembled and we set sail westward,
still unaware of our destination. Again, we settled down to a routine of
boredom, ennui, utter monotony.
One of the reasons I mentioned the
55 years that have passed since these events took place is because I can’t
recall which came first, New Guinea or the Admiralties. For this narrative,
I am going to rely on a failing memory and say that we proceeded to Hollandia,
New Guinea.
The voyage was uneventful, no torpedoes,
nothing but the endless sea, convoy ships all around us, the monotonous
zigzagging which must have doubled our mileage. For the troops, it was
more of the same we had experienced between Frisco and Pearl, more cards,
checkers, chess, craps, reading and re-reading the scant materials aboard
ship, sleeping, and the constant gazing out on the broad expanse of the
Pacific Ocean, wondering what was happening on the home front, wondering
where we were bound, whether we would ever get home again. Eventually we
reached Hollandia and there we stayed for over a week. It seemed like a
month but time does pass slowly when the living space consists of bunks
stacked 18 inches apart, and the exercise area is smaller than your family
room.
One morning, early, we were rudely
awakened by a terrific blast of sound that seemed to shake our ship from
stem to stern. Every sailor in our quarters hit the deck and headed for
the ladder. The ladder, a Navy term, was a stairway about 10 feet wide
which lead to the main deck. If our ship had been hit by a torpedo, we
surely would have all died for we met at the foot of the ladder and created
a human logjam. Eventually we all broke free and made it topside with very
few injuries. Actually, I remember two explosions but some said there was
a third. One of them bounced off a ship, so we were told, before running
aground. No ships were damaged, by a miracle. I knew nothing about torpedoes
and cannot explain why the torpedoes detonated but caused no damage unless
they all ran aground and exploded.
We were not permitted shore leave so
all we could do was stare at the black natives on the distant shore. From
what we saw of them, we were just as happy to remain aboard ship. Finally
we set out to sea again and made our final stop at the Admiralties. I don’t
know why. I don’t remember the other ships in the convoy at this point
in time so it may be that we waited there for another convoy. There was
no pier, so we anchored off shore and sat for several days. It was a beautiful
beach, like you see in one of the Bing Crosby movies but again, we were
not allowed to leave the ship.
Once more we got underway and this
time we made it to Leyte. By this time we were getting a hint of where
we were going and we didn’t think much of it. I forgot to mention that
in Hollandia we had picked up a bunch of Seabees and they regaled us with
stories of where they had been and what they had been doing. Guadalcanal,
Tarawa, and other names I have forgotten. It didn’t make us feel very optimistic
to know that we were now in the company of battle veterans heading for
what? More battles?
By now the rainy season was at its
peak in the South Pacific.
Then came our Lieutenant Commander
Ciaverelli to tell us to pack our gear and prepare to transfer to an LST
which had come alongside. The transfer was made in a cold rain and we were
soon soaking wet. It was the South Pacific but the wind was chilly and
we were all soon chilled to the bone. Except for the officers. They were
warm and dry somewhere in a cozy room while we were exposed to the elements
in the well of the LST. Eventually it was chow time and we were permitted
into the chow hall for sustenance including some hot coffee which we needed
more than anything.
After chow, we were removed outside
again into the rain and the wind. In the Philippines, the rain starts sometime
in the late fall and continues almost without cessation until late spring.
After what seemed to be an eternity
we reached our final destination, Guiuan, Samar. What a disappointment!
Native shacks with thatch roofs, windows but no glass, many of them built
on stilts.
There were a few businesses but they
looked identical to the houses. The only respectable building that I recall
was the Catholic Church which was built of stone.
We marched from the LST through Guiuan
to a row of tents which would be our home for a month before we moved to
our permanent residence about four miles out of Guiuan. The march is also
something I remember because of the rain and the flooding conditions along
the road. The memorable part was due to foxholes that had been dug along
the roadside by someone, whether Japs or Americans, I never knew and it
is not important now. However, they were there but we couldn’t see them
because of the flooding conditions I mentioned. The result was that from
time to time someone would step into the unseen pits and disappear for
a few seconds which elicited howls of laughter from the luckier among us.
Fortunately, I managed to avoid the pitfalls.
When we reached our tents, our first
order of business was to strip down, grab a towel and dry off our chilled
bodies. We should have gotten pneumonia from the exposure but none of us
did that I can remember.
Next, we opened a crate, one of which
was assigned to each of us, and it was just like Christmas. In each crate
was a poncho and pith helmet which would have been SO NICE for the last
6-8 hours. Also a 30 caliber carbine with appropriate ammo, a canvas cot,
a mosquito net with a frame that mounted on the cot, a first aid kit, a
carton of cigarettes, some chocolate bars, and other stuff I have long
since forgotten.
So, dressed out in all our finery,
we were escorted to the local chow hall by an SP and experienced our first
chow on Samar.
I can’t remember the exact menu but
it didn’t change much from one day to another. This one may have been canned
beef stew or Spam, rice, bread, butter (?) powdered milk , and other unmentionables
that came out of a can or from a powder mixed with water. The butter? It
was a dark yellow and when you tried to spread it on a slice of bread,
it tended to roll up as you moved the knife over it. It was so much like
rubber that we swore it would bounce if you dropped it. Many months later,
when we returned to the "old country", our first request was
for a cold glass of "real" milk.
When we left the chow hall, the natives
were lined up to clean the scraps from our trays before we could scrape
them into the garbage cans. They carried old coffee cans, the gallon size,
and didn’t seem to mind if the scraps were all mixed together. Those people
were HUNGRY. Back to our tents we settled down for the night, listening
to a military radio station located in Leyte, dry, warm, our bellies full,
we were at HOME.
Not quite.
We had one more move to make to our
Quonset hut where we would live for the next year.
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