And Youth Was Gone

By William P. Keim

The Second World War profoundly changed the people who fought in it. Bill Kress, a small-town Depression child, raised by his grandparents, became a part of that great drama just a few months after his graduation from high school. He enlisted mainly to delay his induction, but ironically, his enlistment actually brought him under the army's jurisdiction sooner than had he been drafted. Through his basic training and technical schooling to become an army medic, he was to learn that the army governed its people impersonally without regard for their desires, or even their imagined skills. There was "a right way and an army way."

Forced to leave his "first love," a beautiful girl in Atlanta, he was sent overseas aboard the Queen Elizabeth, a woman's name that was to have a significant place in his life. In a series of flashbacks and dreams aboard the ship, Bill Kress tells us about his childhood and the profound influence his grandmother had upon his young life. It was her gentle kindness and love for him and others that was to triumph over the brutish forces of both his grandfather, a stern Pennsylvania Dutch disciplinarian, and the army. Grandfather taught him to survive; grandmother taught him how to live.

Kress's life both at home and overseas was a mixture of horror and humor. The humor shows in the catastrophe of his first date, his army haircut, the tough medical sergeant's "making his own patients," and the romance between the little Chinese cook and the huge English ATS girl. These incidents furnish comic relief for the horrors of being pinned for hours on the beach D-day, and the deaths of friends there and at Bastogne.

Bill Kress more than just survives the war; he reaches an understanding about the meaning of life through its sufferings and through the love of Elspeth. She, as well as his grandmother, was his Elizabeth Barrett who taught him that love is unselfish and requires a complete subjugation of self for the good of others. Bill Kress's lessons were hard, but their very toughness taught him that life, itself, is a struggle, a search for love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 22, 2001
• ISBN: 9780759630703

William P. Keim

Many of you may already have met William Keim when 1st Books Library last summer published his novel And Youth Was Gone, a highly autobiographical study of his own life in the military during World War II. Again, in Civil War Sergeant, William Keim takes one back to another war viewed this time from the mind of a sergeant who fought in that war. The author, a retired teacher and school superintendent, grew up in the small town of Meadville, Pennsylvania, where as a child, he often watched parades in which a few Civil War veterans participated. His memories of several childhood conversations with these old fighters led him to study that war with great care and to the writing of this novel. Like millions of veterans of World War II, where William Keim was a medic, he came home and was educated at Allegheny College, Penn State, Delaware and several other colleges through the famous GI Bill. He started his long educational career in 1949 and is happy to say that he still hears often from his former students, many of whom are now senior citizens, themselves. For William Keim, teaching was both a love and really full-time occupation. Outside of some professional writings about education, he had little time to write fiction – something he has always wanted to do. Retirement after ten years as an innovative school superintendent has offered that opportunity to write. He feels fortunate that he has been given the time to pursue a second career. He and his wife, who has Alzheimer’s, now reside in Huntingdon, Pennsylvania. He currently is writing a third novel and taking care of his beloved wife who he feels deserves most of the credit for being able to pursue his careers.

Book preview

FIFTY-FIVE YEARS!

Fifty-five years! It’s not possible! I’m still young—as young as I was long ago when I lived many of the incidents portrayed in this novel. And then I look at myself: stomach, grown from thirty inches to forty; hair, no longer brown but now gray; feet, flatter and bigger; stamina, no longer there; and the whole body, not able to keep up with the youthful mind. Yes, it is fifty years, and at times, I feel every damned one of them. Youth was gone then; it blossomed into manhood, just as now the body is weakened by old age. The steps are inevitable, and even though each of us thinks he is immune, there is no escaping the life process.

Ah, but the mind! Does it, as Mark Twain said so many years ago, when he reached seventy also, ever cease to feel young-for a whole day at a time? No, it doesn’t. I can still visualize everything that happened to me, perhaps not accurately but somewhat polished and embellished by the sands of time. There were the frustrations of thwarted ambitions, at least postponed until that war was over and one could return to normal life. There was the sheer army boredom of hurrying up and waiting, and with the routines of marching, training, screaming orders, eating, and gold bricking to avoid unpleasant assignments.. There were the funny things that happened-almost unbelievable. Always, there were the injustices of the army system that favored officers, even when they were unbelievably stupid and wrong-headed. There was the fear—the terror of combat that somehow seemed to tell each of us that this time he might not be so lucky. There was the guilt when better men were killed senselessly and without reason and somehow I remained alive. There were friends who even now, after over fifty years, still pass through my mind in their youthful forms, so that when I attend reunions, I wonder who all these old people are. Those of us who were lucky enough to survive and return and fulfill our dreams can now smile and thank whatever gods there may be for our brief reprieve from inevitable death. Yes, some of us might even be lucky enough to be able to write about it.

I first put this novel And Youth Was Gone together about ten years after the war. Because of the pressures of teaching and working second jobs in order to have enough money to raise a family, I never had a chance to revise it thoroughly until I retired several years ago. As I did the revisions—and there were several of them-I found that the historical and biographical reading that I have done for over fifty years brought a new understanding to the actual experiences and memories of the war. It made them fuller, more authentic, through the factual reality that history has added to that terrible conflict. The story I wanted to tell was just too big to be limited to the things that happened to me alone. I was no Audie Murphy, a great hero of a war that had few heroes-at least, live ones. I therefore kept the work fictional so that I could get a more accurate and wider picture of that war. Bill Kress, the main character of this first-person novel, is, and isn’t, Bill Keim. He is more of an everyman.

If one were to ask Bill Kress or any GI at that time why he was fighting the war, he would have received a simple answer: to get home. All the patriotic ballyhoo about fighting to save the free world from the tyranny of Nazism or Japanese fascism was just that to most soldiers-termed by them as patriotic bullshit. The people on the home front may well have been motivated by the daily doses of propaganda in the radio, newspapers and Hollywood movies of John Wayne and other bigger-than-life figures, but whenever we soldiers saw or read this nonsense, we laughed scornfully. I’ve seen combat-weary soldiers walk out on patriotic films—unless, of course, there were some beautiful starlets to gaze upon.

On the other hand, Bill Kress is not an anti-hero, a figure so popular shortly after both world wars. He, like most participants in the war, was neither a patriot nor a cynic about the war. He saw the war as a necessary chore to do and finish so that he could return to what he regarded as his real life. Perhaps more than other soldiers, Bill Kress rebelled against the system that attempted to destroy manhood in making the man. Perhaps, I should say independence rather than manhood for the two are not necessarily the same. No man is completely independent. Most soldiers learned quickly to play the army game of putting one’s mind in a box for the duration. But that lesson did not come readily to William Kress. His assertive nature nearly cost him his life, but those near-death experiences made a man of him. He didn’t gain a victory over the army system of inhumanity, an impossibility, but he managed to survive what Studs Terkel called the last good war, and thus save himself.

Bill Kress endured mainly because of others. He was not the self-made man of the kind that cynics called a horrible example of unskilled labor. There were the women whom he loved and who loved him and the men on whom he depended. The women were the more constant sustenance while most of the men were merely transient-here today for a brief but important time and gone tomorrow. That was the army: although it cast thousands-even millions-of men together in the giant panorama of war, it was the women back home and elsewhere to whom each man looked for support.

I originally wrote And Youth Was Gone in the first person almost forty years ago, and now, fifty-five years after the events, decided to keep it in the first person. I believe that doing so allows a reader to project himself into the mind and body of Bill Kress. This everyman soldier tells his own story, the transition of a small-town boy into manhood. His youth was gone forever.

CHAPTER ONE

DRY RUN

FALL OUT! FALL OUT!

Not again! I thought, trying to stop the noise from awakening my sleepy brain.

ON THE DOUBLE! came the high-pitched scream, magnified, it seemed, a thousand times by the loud speaker at the end of the barracks. OUTSIDE, EVERYBODY!

I hid my head under the blanket, striving to shut out the hullabaloo, but then I remembered: It’s my turn to go out. Get up!

Now, wide-awake, I kicked my feet over the side of the cot and quickly put on my shoes. That was all I needed since I had gone to bed a couple hours ago fully clothed, knowing that tonight it was my obligation to go out and answer for the others.

Around me several other men were going through the same motions of putting on their shoes and gathering their duffel bags. Many of the other soldiers, however, simply groaned, rolled over and returned to sleep. Tonight, they could rest while we covered for them. As I tied my shoes, I mentally ran over the names I was responsible for: Filaire, Garrett, Kingston, Kinzleman, Kramer and my own Kress. I mustn’t forget anyone. Still reciting the names to myself, I grabbed my duffel bag, containing all my earthly possessions, and staggered out into the cold night air.

Glancing at the luminous dial of the wristwatch, given to me a little over a year ago by my grandparents as a graduation present, I could see it was 1:30 in the morning. I had had only two hours sleep. Stupid army! I exclaimed under my breath.

Outside, I stumbled over something in the darkness, and my barracks bag bumped a shadowy form in front of me. It cursed and I grumbled an apology, Dumb blackout!

I found a place in a rough line with other phantom figures near where I could see a pencil of light focused on a piece of paper. Its sublight, reflected from the paper, revealed the double silver bars of a captain, who started to read names from the list. I concentrated my attention on his voice; I must not forget the names: Filaire, Garrett, Kingston…

Filaire! A pause. Private Stephen Filaire!

Uh, here! I shouted, startled by my own voice.

Get with it, Filaire! yelled the officer.

Garrett!

Present! I answered in a higher voice.

Kingston!

Again, I answered, each time in a disguised voice so the officer wouldn’t guess that I was answering for five sleeping companions as well as for myself.

Kress!

I could relax now. Those were all I was responsible for.

The captain continued to call the roll from his lighted paper while around me voices growled in the night.

Another goddamn dry run!

Why can’t these jokers leave us alone until we’re ready to go?

Stupid assholes! I’ll be dead tired before we even get near the war.

For the past four nights we had been going through these dry runs, falling out into the darkness supposedly to go overseas, only to be told each time that we were too slow and had to do things faster. After the first night, many of us had collaborated on a scheme to have one person go out and answer for several sleeping comrades. Our program, which incidentally as an extra bonus improved our assembly time, had worked well for two nights and once already tonight.

ATTENTION! yelled the officer. LEFT FACE!

There was an uneasy murmur of surprise among the men. This was different!

FORWARD MARCH! commanded the captain’s voice out of the darkness. ROUTE STEP, MARCH!

I panicked for a moment. This isn’t a dry run, I thought. We’re on our way!

CLOSE RANKS! KEEP CLOSE TO THE MAN IN FRONT OF YOU.

Then, a voice came out of the darkness. Captain, we ain’t got all our men!

QUIET IN THE RANKS!

Sir, again the same voice in the darkness, some of the men are sleeping in the barracks.

HALT!

We staggered to an uneven stop and the captain walked back along our column, shining his flashlight into our faces. What he expected to learn from such a tactic was a mystery to me since we had never seen him nor had anything to do with him before arriving at Camp Shanks just a week before. But it soon became obvious, even to him, that our ranks were far from complete, with perhaps half the command still back in the barracks, asleep.

Where the hell is everybody? he yelled, obviously near hysteria that some sort of revolt might be in progress.

One of the soldiers down the line confessed what we had done, and there was then a scramble as we broke ranks to rouse or sleeping companions. Lights were suddenly turned on and the blackout was forgotten. It took over a half-hour to get everyone out of bed and reformed so that the roll could be called and checked.

As this task was being completed, over a dozen jeeps roared into the area, each loaded with military police, all carrying machine-guns. They surrounded us and marched us down the road under heavy guard, like a bunch of convicts.

As I stumbled along in the eerie glow of the street lights, my mind wandered off to other times and other places. I had formed a habit a long time ago in school of thinking about other things when immediate activities did not require my undivided attention. It was as if my mind didn’t want to waste time on matters of no interest. My unsympathetic teachers had called it day dreaming.

I wonder what Eleanor is doing now? I thought. She’s probably sleeping, you fool, came my own answer. I conjured Eleanor’s face in my mind-her large hazel eyes, her full lips in a happy smile she had when we met. Had I been right in asking her to marry me? Was it best that we had agreed to wait until I came back from the war? If I hadn’t been assigned as an overseas replacement a few weeks ago and had stayed in Atlanta as I was supposed to do, we probably would have married. I could almost smell the faint fragrance of her perfume, making me long for her, to be with her, away from this stumbling column of sleep-drunk soldiers, getting ready to go overseas.

We stopped abruptly, and the vision vanished. Ahead, just now appearing in the faint light could be seen a long row of train day coaches, connected to a hissing steam engine. As our column stopped for a minute, the soldier next to me lit a cigarette, only to have it batted unceremoniously from his mouth by one of our armed MPs. A minute later, we started to board the train; every sixtieth person became the separation point to be assigned to the next car. I hoped that my friend Dan Garrett and I wouldn’t be separated.

In the army, a person formed friendships quickly. I had met Dan Garrett just a couple weeks ago in Camp Reynolds, near Greenville, Pennsylvania. In spite of his skinny five-foot-seven frame, topped by a narrow, heavy-bearded face and a shock of thick black, curly hair, he had a hidden presence that perhaps was emphasized by almost black eyes that seemed to penetrate into a person’s heart. His voice had a sharp, rasping hillbilly twang that might have been comic in a big man. He had come from a small Arkansas town named Okawa, which I facetiously had remarked was Indian for Hole-in-the Wall.

Our first encounter wasn’t exactly friendly. I had been complaining about being placed on guard duty and not able to go home on pass to Mansfield, about thirty miles from Camp Reynolds.

He’s been home almost every night this week, his harsh voice rasped to a neighbor.

Although I felt a bit of resentment over his comment concerning a matter that was none of his business, I said nothing. There was little sense in provoking a fight, a thing easily done considering the strain most of us were under because of our approaching shipment overseas. Ironically, the two of us were posted on guard duty together, carrying loaded rifles while others walked with empty rifles since medics were not to be trusted with live ammunition.

Now, seated aboard the train beside Dan Garrett, I chuckled to myself as I remembered the first sergeant, an almost ancient regular-army soldier at Camp Reynolds. He had issued us M-1 rifles and two ammunition clips shortly before we were to go on guard duty. Quite proud, and a little fearful, of our new weapons, we carefully carried them back to the barracks, where we turned them this way and that, even peering down the barrels and going through various Daniel Boone maneuvers with them.

Just then, our sergeant ambled into the barracks, took a long somewhat frightened look at our antics and screamed.

For Christ’s sake, drop those rifles!

After we had safely and miraculously deposited the firearms in various locations, he cautiously walked to the center of the room.

Just where in hell did you clowns learn to handle rifles like that? he questioned in a surprisingly gentle voice, considering his initial reaction.

One of our group answered quietly, We’re medics, sergeant. We’ve never handled guns before.

Starting to get pink in the face, the sergeant sputtered and repeated incredulously, You’re medics and never handled rifles!

For more than a whole minute, he paced back and forth, mumbling barely intelligible expletives about the army. He then stopped in the middle of the barracks, faced us and started to say something, but changed his mind. He walked the length of the room and stopped to inspect each of our weapons, making certain that they were empty. That task completed, he returned to the center of the barracks. He seemed somewhat calmer.

All right, he said quietly, get your rifles and come on outside.

He watched us carefully as we picked up the weapons, gently cautioning one man to leave the ammunition clips alone. Outside the barracks, we lined up, holding the rifles awkwardly in various positions: several had shouldered them as they had seen pictures of soldiers doing; some rested the butt on the ground; others held them slung over their arms, and one man stood with the rifle pointing directly under his chin. The old sergeant surveyed us carefully before taking the rifle away from the man who had deposited it under his chin.

Now, I want you to pay close attention to me and then do what I do, he said a little louder, but still not in a parade-ground voice. Watch me, and then we’ll do it by the numbers.

Later today, when you walk your posts, you will carry the rifle over your right shoulder. Now you…

He stopped and stared at one of the men who had casually slung his rifle over his left shoulder. For some reason that annoyed him.

Put that damned rifle down! he shouted, suddenly angry.

The soldier hastened to obey, hitting himself on the foot, causing the rest of us to giggle. The sergeant became a study in controlled patience as he demonstrated what we were to do, counting off each step of the drill. When he had completed his demonstration, he called us to attention and then walked down the line consisting of fourteen of us, placing each of our rifles at Port Arms. He then resumed his position in front of us.

RIGHT SHOULDER ARMS! ONE! he commanded. Each of us brought our pieces to a position resembling what he had just demonstrated. The sergeant looked down the row; his mouth dropped open; his color heightened. Stopping in front of the man second from the right of our column, he said in a controlled voice, "What do you think you’re doing?

Pull in your chin. If that rifle was loaded, you could blow your stupid tongue right through the top of your head."

He walked to the next man, who somehow had managed to get his rifle upside-down, with the barrel pointing toward his stomach and the stock in the air. The sergeant stared as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Not that way, idiot! he yelled. You’ll shoot off your silly balls!

Now visibly red in the face, the sergeant stepped back and surveyed our whole column.

Let’s start all over, he said. ORDER ARMS!

Not knowing or remembering that Order Arms meant to bring the rifles back to our side, the men did various maneuvers, what they thought the sergeant wanted.

’Order arms’ means you put the rifle at your side like this and stand at attention, he explained, demonstrating the move sharply.

He looked down our line and then walked over to a man who obviously had his piece in the wrong position.

Not that way, blockhead! the sergeant yelled. Like this!

The sergeant snapped his own rifle angrily to his side.

Now watch, and I’ll show you again, he said. RIGHT SHOULDER ARMS! ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!

His face beet red from a combination of exertion and frustration, our leader swallowed deliberately in an attempt to calm himself.

Now, one step at a time, by the numbers. RIGHT SHOULDER ARMS! ONE!

He walked over to the man directly to my left and stared ferociously at him.

Put that rifle back in front of you! he exclaimed loudly. You don’t put it on your shoulder until I count THREE.’

No, dammit, he said as several men put their pieces on their shoulders. "I didn’t say ‘THREE’ yet. Put your rifles in front of your noses.

TWO! he commanded.

Bring your left hand up in front of it. Not there! Here! he yelled, yanking the soldier’s hand brutally into the right position.

THREE!

He surveyed our column with a combination of disbelief and horror. He walked to the man on my left.

For Christ’s sake, he yelled. You got the stinking piece on your left shoulder!

The sergeant’s face was turning from beet red into a livid purple. I could see the arteries pulsating in his neck. He walked away from us a few paces, looked at his charges with disbelief and suddenly grabbed his cap and threw it onto the ground with rage.

I’ve been in this army for twenty-seven years, he yelled at us, and I’ve never seen such a bunch of dumb fuck-ups in my life!

What’s the trouble, sergeant? questioned a quiet voice immediately behind him.

The sergeant whirled angrily to face this intruder, only to discover himself face-to-face with a captain who had the OD band on his sleeve, indicating he was Officer of the Day. For a full thirty seconds, the sergeant was speechless; then he stammered, Captain, sir, these guys are medics that have guard duty. Begging your pardon, sir, but they don’t know a damned thing about firearms.

While the fourteen of us stood at uneasy attention, the captain and the sergeant huddled in private conversation. I overheard the captain suggest that we be allowed to walk the posts with empty rifles.

What about the guardhouse? asked the sergeant.

After another brief conference, the officer turned to us and asked if any of us had had experience in handling rifles, even in civilian life. Five of us, including Dan Garrett and me, answered that we had. I had been in the last group of medics at Camp Pickett, Virginia to train with rifles. We were then assigned to the guardhouse while the rest of the men had their clips of ammunition taken from them and were to walk their posts with empty rifles.

During the night while I was on guard, I heard a noise and snapped my rifle around and yelled, HALT! Out of the darkness came the frightened voice of the old sergeant.

For Christ’s sake, don’t shoot! It’s the sergeant of the guard.

Now, sitting next to each other on the train, Dan Garrett and I studied the MP, seated at the end of our car with his machine-gun across his lap. He stared grimly back at us, obviously angry about being awakened at this ungodly hour to guard a bunch of screw-ups. A lieutenant came down the aisle and eased tensions a bit by telling us we could smoke. This act also loosened our tongues, so we talked and speculated about where we might be going. Because we had been given lighter summer clothing and since the invasion of Italy was in progress at that time, most of us felt that would be our destination.

Nearly all of us were fresh out of technical school or basic training and had been designated as overseas replacements, a situation that filled us with some foreboding since it usually meant considerable grief from army unit regulars and little chance of promotion. Because I had spent three months in the cadre at Camp Pickett, Virginia, training the next bunch of recruits, as well as over three months in technical laboratory school in Atlanta, Georgia, I had been in the army three to six months longer than most of the men now on this train. But here I was just a Private First Class, PFC, no different from most of the rest.

The train jerked and moved slowly toward New York City, where some kind of a ship must be waiting for us. We knew that ships sailed in convoys, and we made guesses as to how many would be traveling in ours. Because most of us had never even seen an ocean-going vessel, we were excited, a feeling heightened by apprehension over the reports of large numbers of sinkings of allied ships by Nazi submarines.

About five in the morning, the train stopped; the same lieutenant who had told us we could smoke, now told us to put out the cigarettes and refrain from talking. We then got up and followed the man immediately in front of us out of the train onto a cement loading platform. As we walked along, my shoe came untied and I stepped out of ranks to tie it. Something hard jabbed me in the back; I turned and looked directly into the muzzle of a machine-gun carried by one of our escorting guards. He told me to get back in line, and not wishing to belabor the point, I forgot the shoe and complied with alacrity.

As we passed through the train station, some sleepy civilians, apparently on their way to work, glanced briefly at us and went on about their business. A middle-aged lady apparently recognized one of the soldiers in front of Dan Garrett and me and ran toward him. One of the MPs stopped her.

Sorry, lady, he said gruffly, you ain’t allowed to talk to these men.

The woman pointed and said, But he’s my son!

Sorry, mam. It’s against regulations.

The mother and son waved briefly, their feeble gestures personifying the frustration felt by all of us, and the column moved on. The soldier walked along, his jaw set grimly in an effort to hide his feelings and probably his tears. This incident, along with the heavily armed guards accompanying us, made us feel like convicts rather than soldiers.

As we passed a newsstand, I felt a strong impulse to stop and purchase a magazine, but our MP watchdogs would never have permitted that. I wondered with wry humor what would have happened if one of us had had dysentery.

We halted for about fifteen minutes, still forbidden to talk, and then were ordered aboard a ferryboat called Meadville. Once aboard and moving, we were allowed to talk.

Don’t tell me we’re going overseas in this! exclaimed Dan Garrett’s harsh voice in an attempt at humor.

The response to his joke was so poor that we all lapsed into grim silence the rest of the trip across the Hudson River. Our ferry docked beside a rusty merchant vessel. I had a sick feeling that this might be the ship that was to take us across the Atlantic, so I was greatly relieved when we marched by it and entered a large warehouse. After traversing several more warehouses, we emerged into an early morning gloom where a huge steel wall loomed before us. It was an awesome sight. I had known that ocean vessels were large, but I was completely unprepared for anything as monstrous as this. Hundreds of soldiers and a contingent of Red Cross women were dwarfed beneath the sides of the ship which protruded outward so that we couldn’t even see the deck.

As we lined up to get aboard, old Red Cross women passed out coffee and doughnuts. The soldiers stretched their necks, looking for something younger, prettier, the last American girls we would see, but the youngest I saw was in her late forties. Apparently, the army and the Red Cross had discovered that duffel bags were capable of holding something warmer than blankets.

After gulping the coffee and still eating doughnuts, we were ordered to start boarding. I had always believed that one walked up a gangplank to get aboard a ship, an impression probably acquired from watching movies, but such was not the situation for us: we headed down a walkway toward a hole in the side of the ship. As I passed through this opening, I could hear a band somewhere playing the Pennsylvania Polka, certainly not in my special honor. Once inside, we were guided through several corridors, down two flights of stairs, and dropped off at various small rooms along the way. Near the end of a corridor, we halted in front of a room with D-23 painted on the door. Six of us, including Dan Garrett and me, with all our baggage were ordered to take this room.

What is this? I questioned as I surveyed our tiny room. They surely couldn’t believe that six of us could fit in here! Our cabin might have accommodated a honeymoon couple on an inexpensive cruise, but to expect six of us with all our stuff to stay in it was absurd. It was actually eight-feet square, with some of that space filled with a steel floor cabinet and small sink. Since the cabinet was capable of holding only one of our barracks bags, we later compromised by keeping our toilet articles in it. We soon discovered to our dismay that the sink had only cold sea water. At the rear of the cabin was a doorway that opened to a tiny three-by-three area, containing a toilet. Practically all of our eight-by-eight room was filled by two triple-deck bunks, made from steel frame and laced canvass, sandwiched between the seven-foot, floor-to-ceiling area. The bottom bunk was so low that it was necessary to lie on the floor and roll slightly upward into it; the top bunk was very close to the ceiling, making it impossible to turn over or change position. One almost had to levitate himself to get into either the middle or top bunks, and since all of them were constructed just five and one-half feet long, not one of our group, not even Dan Garrett, could lie straight in them.

Nevertheless, a heated debate broke out among us as to who would sleep in the top bunks since they were considered the prime positions. Our arguments were soon halted by a series of tremors that palsied our floor, ceiling and walls in violent vibrations.

My god! exclaimed someone outside our cabin. Don’t tell me the Germans have torpedoed us already!

NOW HEAR THIS! NOW HEAR THIS!

We jumped when this loud speaker located right outside our door blared its message.

WE ARE MOVING OUT TO SEA. EVERY MAN IS CONFINED TO HIS QUARTERS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. I REPEAT. YOU ARE TO STAY WHERE YOU ARE ASSIGNED!

Our little room continued its earthquake vibrations, which we later learned came from the huge propeller shaft, located directly under our cabin floor.

Well, Bill, remarked Dan Garrett, this ain’t no dry run, but I sure as hell hope we don’t get wet.

CHAPTER TWO

THE TOURISTS: PART I

Listening to the unsettling rumble of the propeller shaft beneath us, the six of us in Cabin 23-D stood about, not knowing what to do. Dan Garrett rummaged through his barracks bag, keeping his head down and obviously not wanting to talk to anyone at that moment. Steve Filaire, whose quietness seemed so foreign to what one would expect from his big-city Chicago background, just stood and looked around the little cabin while the other four of us sat on our duffel bags, not talking, each wrapped in his own thoughts, probably of home as mine were.

Mansfield, Pennsylvania-just a small ordinary town with one high school, three Catholic churches and numerous Protestant ones.

A few minutes later, our thoughts were interrupted when a very short man in a white suit appeared in our doorway and called our six names, mispronouncing most of them. He handed each of us a large blue badge with the white letter D printed on it. In some kind of foreign accent he told us to keep the badge on us at all times in case we got lost on the ship. Although we almost laughed at the idea of being lost on a ship, we were later to find that his advice was most apropos; nearly every one of us managed to get lost before the trip was over. He also handed us white Mess Cards. Although he seemed in a hurry, I did manage to ask him what ship we were on.

Now, mates, he said with obvious pride, "you’re on the biggest and fastest ship afloat, the Queen Elizabeth."

Any other information would have to come later. He left us and moved across the hall to the next cabin where I could hear him completing the same ritual in his strangely accented voice.

All of us jumped when the loud speaker suddenly blared, ALL MEN HOLDING NUMBER ONE MESS CARDS MAY GO ON DECK FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES.

Our cards were Number 3, so we waited nearly an hour before our chance to go above. Proceeding according to instructions, we followed the EXIT signs along a couple corridors and up several flights of stairs before emerging rather suddenly into the light of early morning. It was so foggy that we could barely see the Statue of Liberty and just an outline of New York buildings in the distance. As we gazed at the disappearing buildings,

I secretly prayed that I might be seeing this sight in the near future, returning home with the war over.

Turning my attention to the ship, I could see that we were standing above the main deck at the back of the ship. Below us, hundreds of men were straining their eyes to scan the shoreline behind us. The sound of feminine voices above caused most of us to gaze upward, where we could see several army nurses and assorted male officers. We knew instinctively that their upper deck would be off-limits to any of us. My mind did some calculations and I came to the conclusion that there must be at least five-thousand people aboard this ship. Glancing over the rail at the water passing below, I noticed unexpectedly that it was a dirty green color instead of the blue I had anticipated for sea water. I didn’t know then that sea water is actually blue or gray, depending on the light, but close to shore the vegetation causes it to be green.

The voice on the loud speaker ordered us to return to our quarters. Taking a last look at retreating America, we followed directions back to our little cabin. Settling down, we introduced ourselves. In addition to Dan Garrett and Steve Filaire, whom I already knew, my other cabin mates were George Kingston, a barracks mate in Camp Shanks, who came from a small town somewhere in Illinois; Jack Brooks, a rather noisy character with a protruding lower jaw, whose home was Philadelphia; and Harry Weinstein, a skinny man who resembled a friend of mine back home, Norm Jarnik, who had enlisted with me in Erie. Harry Weinstein’s father ran a tobacco shop in New York City.

There was some discussion over the choice of bunks until it was resolved by George Kingston’s suggestion that we cast lots for the choices. The choices didn’t seem important at the time, but later were to prove a source of conflict. Steve Filaire drew the top bunk away from the door with Dan Garrett in the middle and Harry Weinstein on the bottom. In the triple-decker next to the door were Jack Brooks, on top; George Kingston, in the middle and me on the bottom.

The choice of bunks made, we started unpacking some of our things and speculated about where we might be going. Dan Garrett, who had been standing in the doorway where he could see down the hall, suddenly whispered to me, Here comes that little foreigner in the white monkey suit. Maybe he can tell us where we’re going.

We must be going to Italy or maybe Africa, George Kingston speculated. It has to be someplace warm with the clothing we have.

Brooks interrupted knowingly, referring to the steward, You have to tip these bastards if you want to get any information out of them.

Weinstein reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar and handed it to Brooks, who thrust it at the steward, almost demanding to know where were going. The steward handed him back the money.

Ooch, you’re goin’ to one hell of a place, to that barbarian province south of my country, to a place called England. But ye’ll be landin’ in a beautiful country called Scotland.

He smiled with a delightful twinkle in his blue eyes. Encouraged by our curiosity, he proceeded to give us some practical advice: not to take sea-water showers since the soap wouldn’t lather in it and the water was cold anyway; to be prepared to be seasick, about which there was little we could do; and to take advantage of every chance to move about, but being careful not to get lost.

It’s a big ship, sonny, the steward commented to Brooks, who obviously thought the idea of getting lost on a boat was funny, the biggest and fastest ship in the world. We have about fifteen thousand of you Yanks on board. He smiled and then added, "You’re not to worry: the Queen Elizabeth’s so fast she can out-run any submarine."

How fast is a torpedo? asked Dan Garrett rhetorically after the steward had departed.

A short time later, the loud speaker issued instructions about eating. We could have just two meals a day and were to eat in shifts according to the numbers on our mess cards.

ALL MEN HOLDING NUMBER ONE MESS CARD NOW FORM YOUR LINES!

Since we had Number Three, we settled down to wait our turn. I thought about sleeping. All of us were tired and some were irritable because of no sleep the night before.

What time is it? yelled a deep voice just down the corridor from us.

What do you care? answered another voice coming from the doorway of the room next to ours. You ain’t goin’ anywhere except maybe to get your ass shot off.

I asked for the time, said the original voice, closer this time, not some smart-assed remark.

Blow it out your keester!

Both men were angry now and apparently facing each other right outside our cabin. They shouted at each other. It was the braying of asses, the thumping of apelike chests, the screaming of monkeys-all the sounds animals make when trying to frighten off their enemies. Dan Garrett beckoned me to come into the hall and watch.

All I asked for was the time, explained a short man with dark piercing eyes. He had a small white scar beneath one of his eyes. There’s no need for you to get all hot and bothered.

Seemingly without reason, the other man, a burly redhead, suddenly lashed out and struck the smaller man, knocking him against the wall of the corridor. Instead of collapsing to the floor as we had expected, the man with the scar bounced off the wall like a rubber ball, and struck the redhead with a series of professional-like punches. Blood gushed from the larger man’s nose and mouth as he fell to his knees.

Someone brushed roughly past Dan and me and stepped between the two antagonists.

Just what in hell do you think you’re doing! the man, a sergeant, exclaimed. Stand back, both of you!

For a moment, the man with the scar eyed the sergeant, and then slowly lowered his hands and backed away. The sergeant turned to the rest of us.

Now, you men listen to me! My name is Sergeant Kelley, and I’m in charge of this section of the D-Deck. His green eyes traveled along the corridor, stopping briefly when they met ours. If I catch any of you putting on any exhibition like this, you’ll spend the rest of the trip in the brig!

He pointed to the redheaded man who had risen to his feet.

You go and get yourself cleaned up, he ordered. I’ll be in Cabin D-24. No more of this bullshit. You’ll get plenty of fighting where we’re going.

He stopped and his eyes looked each one of us back into our cabins. I retrieved a paperback novel from my duffel bag, lay down on the floor and rolled awkwardly into my bottom bunk. I found I had to hold the book out over the edge of the bunk so the light would hit it enough to enable me to read. Weinstein was already reading a historical novel by Kenneth Roberts called Rabble in Arms, which I had read in high school. He seemed so absorbed that I choked off a desire to discuss it with him. Within a few minutes, Brooks was shaving at the tiny sink, George Kingston lay daydreaming in the bunk above me, and Dan Garrett had gone to sleep. Steve Filaire suddenly jumped down from his bed and went into the small bathroom, where I could hear him throwing up. He was the first in our cabin to get seasick. Unable to concentrate on my reading, I lay back, stuck my legs through the end of the steel bunk and allowed my mind to drift.

*

Willie, stand up straight! How can Aunt Helen take your picture if you keep bending over like that?

Embarrassed, I fought to control myself.

I can’t, Uncle Albert.

Nonsense! exclaimed the smiling fat man next to me. Now, take your hands out of your pockets and stand by the Maxwell with me.

Uncle Albert’s strong hand reached down and grabbed mine.

I have to go to the toilet, I whispered.

The Kodak box camera pointed at the two of us as I held on, hoping that I could restrain myself until the ordeal was over. The pert brunette behind the camera smiled and snapped our picture.

There, Billy, she laughed. You can go now.

She and Uncle Albert smiled at each other as I ran into the house.

*

Lying in the small bunk now as the ship began to roll, I laughed to myself, wondering why one’s mind went back to events of little importance and for no apparent reason. Still, that camera incident was the first event of my life that I could recall. I had been about four at the time.

Jack Brooks brought me brutally back to reality by stepping on my arm as he climbed down from the top bunk. He had almost stepped on me before when he had climbed into his bunk. There was no apology as he went over and fished for something in his barracks bag. Kingston slept soundly above me, undisturbed by Brooks; Weinstein still read his book, but Steve Filaire was again sick, throwing up the coffee and doughnuts given to us by the Red Cross women. I got up and went into the little toilet room to help him.

No, just get out and leave me alone, he moaned.

I shrugged my shoulders and as I turned to leave, the loud speaker startled me by blasting out suddenly, "ALL MEN HOLDING NUMBER

TWO MESS CARDS FORM YOUR CHOW LINES. FOLLOW THE SIGNS TO THE DINING ROOM. THOSE HOLDING NUMBER 3 CARDS DO NOT COME TO THE DINING ROOM UNTIL YOUR NUMBER IS CALLED."

Looking at my watch, I saw that it was 9:45. It had taken about two hours to feed the ones who had Number One mess cards; that meant that it would be some time before they got to our Number Three.

I hope they have something fit to eat left over by the time they get to us, I commented to the now awake Dan Garrett as I lay down on the floor and rolled back into my bunk.

I don’t really care very much, Dan answered.

What’s the matter? You seasick too?

I just don’t feel so hot, Maybe the doughnuts were too greasy.

You’re seasick, I commented, wondering at the same time where I had acquired my expertise. You better try to eat something. I’ve heard it’s best to have a full stomach.

You mean so you got more to throw up, remarked Dan, grimacing with forced humor.

Dan lapsed into silence while Steve gave another heave into the tiny toilet. I returned to my daydreaming.

*

According to the gospel of sociologists and psychiatrists, my childhood had not been an acceptable one. When I was a baby of less than two years of age, my father and mother separated and divorced, a divorce caused by my father’s lack of responsibility and gambling habits and my mother’s nasty temper tantrums. It might have been just the times they were living in. Calvin Coolidge was president and the country was still on the binge following the war, living a false prosperity concerned only with the present and with little regard for the future. What to do with me was a problem for the young couple who were only twenty at the time, but my maternal grandparents made the decision to take and raise me, an offer which ended talk of putting me into an Oddfellow’s Home back in Mansfield and provided great relief to my father who had great respect and admiration for his mother-in-law. Since the final separation had taken place in California, my mother packed me into the back seat of an Oldsmobile touring car and headed across country for Pennsylvania. After several tire replacements and a rebuilt motor, all done by my talented mother, the two of us arrived safely in Mansfield in the late spring of 1925. Over the next sixteen years of my life, mother appeared occasionally in her parents’ home long enough to reacquaint herself with her son, buy him some clothes and try to educate him.

Grandmother, who treated me always with love and kindness, became the outstanding influence on my life. Grandfather was a stern Pennsylvania Dutch disciplinarian who expected instant obedience, or if thwarted, would use his hand freely on my behind. Although not a religious man, Grandfather Shumacher believed in the Biblical maxim that if you spared the rod, you spoiled the child. This combination of his strong discipline and unselfish love from my grandmother led me to govern my life by a weird mixture that somehow generally pleased them both: grandfather, through obedience, and grandmother, through mutual returned love. In any event, their system proved better than the irresponsibility of my father and the self-centered intelligence and lack of compassion from my mother.

*

ALL REMAINING MEN HOLDING NUMBER TWO MESS CARDS REPORT AT THIS TIME TO THE CAFETERIA.

It’s over two hours since they started calling the Two’s, commented Dan Garrett from his bunk.

It was already evident that Dan and I were the only ones interested in eating; the rest had been to the little toilet several times, already seasick.

You know, Dan, I said, " I was just thinking about the things I did when I was a kid.

Dan laughed. I remember my first day of school. Okawa is just a little town, and there were three of us who walked in and soon found that teachers weren’t those nice old ladies we had seen pictures of in magazines. She was old but meaner than hell. She grabbed me by the arm and escorted me to a desk and said, ‘ Sit!’ That one word and the way she said it told me that I was in for a miserable time."

Dan’s first day wasn’t too different from my own.

*

Come on, Billy! said Lucille Engle angrily as we approached the large red-brick building. There’s nothing to be scared of.

Holding tightly to my hand, she almost dragged me through the double steel doors and down a long corridor, punctuated by large wooden doors with small windows in the top center of each one. A windowless door had BOYS painted on it in big black letters.

What’s in there? I asked Lucille, thinking perhaps it might be for me.

That’s the boys’ toilet, she snapped as if I should know. I’m not allowed in there; it’s for you boys only. She pulled my arm impatiently. Come on! Hurry up! I got to get to my third-grade class; you’ll make me late.

I was a frightened little boy. This place was big. Too big! I wished then that I could feel as secure as Lucille who marched confidently down the long hall, where, at the end, we stopped in front of a room marked 1-A MISS BORRELL.

You won’t like her, Lucille commented and thrust me through the door into the room. In an instant, Lucille was gone.

I stared around me bewildered by all the people in the room, including several adults and at least twenty small boys and girls, also looking dazed. The adults clustered around a very skinny old lady who smiled with obviously false teeth that clacked when she talked. Cautiously, I looked around the room, hoping to find someone whom I might know. All alone in the back corner of the room, away from the other kids, stood Bill Sherrid, a neighbor with whom I occasionally played and often fought. Although I didn’t like Bill, his familiar face was welcome in this mob of strangers. He stood there sullenly with his hands in the pockets of his knee pants as if defying anyone to address him. He seemed relieved, however, when I approached him.

Who are all these people? I asked.

With a look of masterly six-year-old confidence, Bill replied, They’re the moms of the rest of the kids. I guess they were afraid to come by themselves.

I thought it best that I not tell him that Lucile Engle had brought me.

Who’s that skinny old lady, the one with the teeth?

That’s our teacher, he commented, obviously with distaste. I wish we had the younger one across the hall.

Bill Sherrid and I mulled around for a couple minutes, determined more and more to dislike Miss Borrell . Then Bill grinned at me in such an evil way that I was thought he was going to pick a fight.

Hey, why don’t we go over there to the other teacher! he suggested.

I hesitated at first, but since no one was paying any attention to us, we slipped through the doorway and ducked into the room labeled 1-B, MISS FRY. There were no mothers in this room and she was in the process of calling names of students and assigning them to seats. She glanced up from her list and saw the two of us.

Oh, hello! she said musically. What are your names?

A sick feeling of hollowness invaded my stomach, the kind one gets with fear of discovery. Bill Sherrid and I managed to stammer out our names.

Miss Fry referred to her list of students and then said sweetly, You must belong to Miss Borrell, next door. I’ll take you over.

Taking each of us by the hand, she escorted us to the room from which we had just escaped, and told Miss Borrell that we must have made a mistake in coming to her room. Miss Borrell gave each of us a cold penetrating stare with her ice-blue eyes.

Thank you, Miss Fry, I’ll take care of them. They were in here before and must have sneaked out.

She took our hands in a crushing grip, unexpected from such a frail-looking body, and sat us down in seats directly in front of her desk.

You stay right here, she ordered and returned to talk to the last of the mothers. As soon as they departed, Miss Borrell literally marched to the front of the room and stood directly in front of Bill and me. The room immediately became silent.

Children, she opened in a harsh even tone, You are now in my class, first grade at East End School. My name is Miss Borrell and I shall expect absolute obedience. Pointing to a large paddle hanging prominently in the corner of the room, she continued, Should you fail to do as I tell you, I shall thrash you.

As she said these last words, she looked directly at Bill Sherrid and me, her cold blue eyes penetrating to my very soul. So this was how it was to go to school! I didn’t like it at all.

*

ALL MEN HOLDING NUMBER THREE MESS CARDS FORM YOUR LINES! COME ON, ALL YOU CHOW HOUNDS!

Oh, fine, mumbled Brooks from his bunk. We now have a comedian for an announcer.

Dan Garrett and I gathered our canteen cups, as we had been instructed, and started for the dining room. Our cabin mates declined our invitation to join us, obviously too seasick to think about food. The ship’s pitching was much more evident in the corridors than it had been in our cabin. As the long hallway rolled up and down and sideways, we found it necessary to hold onto the hand railings, occasionally even going almost hand-over-hand to prevent ourselves from being bounced off opposite walls. We followed the Dining Room signs up a flight of stairs and then down another and found ourselves in a long army chow line. The pitching of the ship was causing many to abandon their efforts to eat and leave the line, but I had learned that it wasn’t wise to pass up a chance to eat in the army. Dan Garrett and I meandered another fifteen minutes through more corridors and stairs before passing through twin doors into a very elegant dining room, paneled in dark wood with intricate and beautiful carvings. The number of blank spaces indicated that the decorations were not complete; we were later told that the Elizabeth’s builders had been in the process of decorating the interior of the ship when America entered the war and converted it into a troop ship. There were no tables or chairs in the dining room; they had been replaced by long-probably fifty or sixty-feet-picnic-like tables with benches fastened to the sides. I estimated that there were enough to seat about a thousand men.

The serving was being done in the usual army cafeteria style with KPs dishing the food onto our trays as we passed by. I picked up a metal tray and a spoon. There were no forks or knives so we were to eat with just one utensil. A dirty soldier with food slopped all over the front of his white apron spooned an orange pasty-looking material onto my tray.

What’s that? I questioned, observing the mixture with distaste and suspicion.

Wassa matter wit’ you, dummy? he countered hostilely, wiping his runny nose on the back of his hand. Dem’s baked beans.

Looking at this pulpy mess, I was unable to see even an outline of a single bean. Before I could defend myself, another equally sloppy soldier threw a spoon of something on my tray that hit with a mushy splat.

I recognized this second addition to my meal as the usual army hash, only somewhat more watery than most that I had seen.

Sounding like a piece of wood, some stale bread was the next item to hit my tray; another server slopped some marmalade on top of the bread. This whole unappetizing conglomeration was topped off by a small object that resembled a tiny shrunken head. I looked at it with horror.

My god! I couldn’t help but exclaim. What is that?

Closer examination revealed it to be an apple, but obviously in a state of embalmment. The meal was topped off with the usual canteen cup full of GI coffee, the kind that could support a spoon until it dissolved in the acid.

After I left the chow line, walking across the room to a long table proved extremely difficult because the floor beneath us was now pitching so markedly that it was like alternately climbing or descending an inclining plane. Trying to be seated at one of the picnic tables was even more difficult. As I raised my leg to put my foot over the bench seat, the ship suddenly lurched backwards, causing me to upset part of my coffee on a quickly cursing soldier at the table behind me. Seeing my dilemma, a GI already seated at my table held my canteen cup and tray while I negotiated the bench. Lifting my left leg like a male dog about to shoot a fireplug, I timed it so that I could throw my leg over the bench when the ship tilted in the right direction to aid me. Four pitches of the ship later, I was safely seated and could hold Dan Garrett’s tray while he went through the same maneuvers. At last we were ready to eat.

To do so, it was necessary that we hold our trays and canteen cups with one hand while we used the spoon to feed ourselves. The reason for not having either forks or knives was now obvious: we would be in danger of stabbing ourselves or someone else. Dan and I picked at the unsavory mess in front of us, trying to accumulate enough nerve to actually try eating it. At that moment, someone twenty feet up the table from us forgot to hold his cup and tray, both of which came hurtling down the table toward us, spilling their contents on the way. In their efforts to avoid the liberated tray and cup, several men forgot to hold onto their own; soon, a dozen or more trays and cups were sliding freely up and down the table, turning the table top into a sea of brown pasty garbage. To ruin any possible appetites Dan and I might have left, the man beside me regurgitated his whole stomach contents into his lunch tray.

Seeing this, Dan Garrett got up from his seat and said to me, Let’s get out of here, Bill. I can’t take any more of this.

Laboriously, we made our way across the slippery floor toward the EXIT sign and the garbage cans. As usual, near the garbage cans stood a sergeant, an affinity of man and slop that always seemed present whenever the food was especially bad. This particular sergeant looked as if he might be equipped with fangs.

What’s da matter wit dat food? he demanded of the soldier in front of me.

Food! the man almost screamed. You got a hell of a lot of nerve calling this slop food!

So, you don’t like da cookin’ here, huh? growled the sergeant, his eyes lighting up in expectation of trouble.

Is that what you call it? questioned the soldier sarcastically.

Well, smiled the sergeant and then slowly raised his voice, maybe you can improve it a bit. He then suddenly raised his voice to a roar, You’re on KP, soldier!

The sergeant signaled a couple of his coworkers to come and drag off the offending soldier.

My mind worked extremely fast in this emergency, and I turned to Dan Garrett and whispered, Watch me, Dan, and do exactly what I do.

I had had enough kitchen police duty a year ago in the army reception center at Fort Meade to last me a lifetime, and had since been finding many ingenious ways of getting out of that chore.

The sergeant now turned to me and leered, I suppose you don’t like da food either.

Grabbing my mouth, I gurgled, I don’t feel so good!

I thrust my tray into the hands of the surprised sergeant and rushed from the dining room. Once out of danger, I halted and waited for Dan Garrett. For a minute or more, he didn’t appear, but then he came out obviously ill. His face was almost green.

What happened to you? I exclaimed.

You and your bright ideas! he managed to snarl. I had to get sick before the bastard would let me go!

Concerned about Dan’s evident illness, I led the way toward our cabin. Then I noticed that things didn’t seem quite right; the area was unfamiliar. I stopped.

Where are we? I asked Dan.