Lost Boys of the River Camp

By Jeff Turner

Freckle-faced fifteen and sixteen-year-old uniformed sentries no longer stand guard at the summer camp's main entrance, .30 caliber rifles slung over their shoulders. The roar of the artillery drills, once rattling the window panes of nearby cottages and the frayed nerves of summer vacationers, is silent. Ther bugle calls piercing the stillness of dawn and dusk on the river are no more. Over a century ago, the civilian-backed Junior Naval Reserve established its first summer station in Uncasville, Connecticut. The river camp sought to prepare our nation's youth for service in the navy or merchant marine. Youngsters were taught the lore and lure of the sea along with a heavy dose of military training: rifle practice, artillery drills, saber tactics, marches and bivouacs, and battle formations. The heart of this tale lies with Henry Cameron, a fifteen-year-old struggling to find a place for himself in a world torn apart by war. Emboldened by a thrist for adventure, Henry enrolls and embarks on an eventful summer journey, one shaped by those he meets along the way: a war-weary but wise cavaly lieutenant, a puzzling Uncle, a summer sweetheart, and an untamed bully set upon terrorizing the entire camp. This is an imaginative story capturing a forgotten pieve of Connecticut military history. As a historical novel, it offers a seamless blend of fact and fiction and a thought-provoking portrait of junior midshipman training during WWI.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635685374

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Lost Boys of the RIVER CAMP

BY

JEFF TURNER

Copyright © 2017 Jeff Turner

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-63568-536-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63568-537-4 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Cover design by Julianna W. Cameron

Photo courtesy of United States Junior Naval Reserve, 231 West Fifty-eighth Street, New York, NY

This is a work of historical fiction. The setting for the work is Camp Dewey as it existed in 1917, and the book makes reference to well-known towns, historical landmarks and public figures. In some instances, features of Camp Dewey, surrounding towns, and historical landmarks have been altered to enhance the book’s story line. Unless otherwise noted, names, characters and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

Also by Jeff Turner

The Way Back

The Hero of Willow Creek

For Gregg

If all the school boys of the North had, from 1830 on, been instructed in military drill, how much precious time would have been saved in organizing the Union armies . . . It will not be safe to allow war to come upon us again in that state, for war’s pace has greatly quickened, and the arms of precision now in use call for a trained soldier.

Benjamin Harrison, 1893

Prologue

AS A KID I GREW UP LISTENING TO THE distant wails of locomotive whistles, getting wind of them almost every night before I dropped off to sleep. I shared a bedroom with my older brother Gregg and sometimes we could hear the clickety-clack of the wheels on the rails, especially during warm summer nights. It’s kind of a lonely, romantic sound, the day settling down, just peaceful and restful. I often wondered where the trains were heading, what they were hauling.

All of these sounds left an indelible imprint in my head, and the rails both beckoned and snared both of us. When we both got a longer leash in late childhood and were allowed to roam free with our pals, it was the call of that whistle and the lure of the train tracks that led to the creation of this story.

I was brought up in the 1950s in the small, quiet village of Quaker Hill, Connecticut. Our house was situated fairly close to the Thames river, and at the end of our hilly street a path cut through some woods and led directly to the railroad tracks and the river. I spent a lot of time down there with Gregg and our friends. If we weren’t swimming, building rafts, or soaking up the sun, we’d pass time watching Central Vermont freight trains rumble by, waving to the engineer, counting the freight cars, maybe heaving a rock or two into an open hopper, and leaving a few coins on the rails and having them flattened.

As we got older, we spent a lot of time walking the tracks. If we walked south, we’d end up in New London, walking past shipping yards, loading docks, and the Coast Guard Academy. If we walked north, the tracks would take us upriver to Norwich, and we’d hike by an ominous electrical power plant, more loading docks, and Fort Shantok, a seventeenth-century fortified Mohegan Native American village and burial ground.

On those days when we wanted to do a little exploring, two abandoned junior naval reserve camps became a favorite destination, one located in Quaker Hill the other in Uncasville. The Quaker Hill camp, active from the late 1930s through the 1950s, was small scale and sat just off the railroad tracks next to the river. Initially called Camp Lanman then Camp Cabral, its grounds consisted of a gymnasium and several outbuildings, all badly vandalized since the camp closed. We liked to poke around in the debris hoping to find vintage relics or priceless antiques, not that either one of us knew how to spot one. But, any poking around for us kids or anyone else was short-lived because one day without warning we discovered that a demolition crew had leveled the property site and left no trace of it behind.

The other junior naval reserve camp in Uncasville was much older than its Quaker Hill counterpart. Camp Dewey had sprung up just after the turn of the century and while few traces of it remained, those who knew about it could point out its various features and functions as if it were still standing. To get there, we had to follow the rails north for a few miles until we reached a place called Point Breeze. Using today’s landmarks, Point Breeze sits just a few miles downriver from the Mohegan Sun Casino and Resort.

Unlike the Quaker Hill camp, this one was immense. A narrow road took us past acres upon acres of lush meadowland, perfectly level and extending far away to a tall stand of oak trees. It was on this meadowland that Camp Dewey established its parade grounds and tent colony. The road continued alongside the parade grounds until it wound its way past a separate small community of summer cottages. Beyond the cottages, a gentle slope led down to the river and the camp’s dock, where a fleet of training boats were once kept.

I’d sit down by the river totally fascinated by the camp. From what I’d been told, it had been the summer training station for hundreds and hundreds of cadets between the ages of twelve and seventeen from all across the United States. I’d later learn that in its day Camp Dewey was considered the granddaddy of all junior naval reserve training stations—the first one ever established—and at one point boasted a cadet population of close to one thousand.

As a kid, I loved military history and often visualized how the area could resemble a military encampment: a sea of tents pitched around the square parade ground, cannon at the ready, and dozens of boats moored near the dock. I could see the young cadets engaging in marching drills, target shooting, hiking the countryside, fighting simulated battles, and sailing up and down the river. I could hear the bugle calls, the booming of cannon, the crackling of rifle fire.

I recall once or twice trying to learn more about Camp Dewey but couldn’t find much written about it. I did discover, though, that the camp was part of a national plan hatched and bankrolled primarily by industrial tycoons, philanthropists, naval men, and statesmen to groom and eventually enlist younger generations in the Navy or the Merchant Marine. Camp Dewey burst forth in the public eye in the mist of our country’s involvement in World War I, but surprisingly endured for only three years. Beyond that, I came up empty-handed.

As the years went by, Camp Dewey became a distant memory as I got on with the business of growing up. I met the throes of adolescence, discovering who I was and exploring new social horizons, then set my sights on gaining a foothold in the adult world. Marriage, family life, and career involvement followed a predictable, enjoyable, and rewarding path. I became a college professor and textbook author, writing primarily on the topics of human development and family life. Interestingly, brother Gregg also became a college professor, as well as a prolific author, penning many books on railroad history. I guess you could say he never stopped following the rails.

In recent years I’ve taken a liking to writing fiction. In my first two novels, The Way Back and The Hero of Willow Creek, I created story lines set against the backdrop of Quaker Hill and towns along the Thames river and beyond. When I developed a third story line—a teenager struggling to find a place for himself in a world torn apart by chaos—I lacked a suitable setting for the story. When I mentally tried out various time frames and backdrops for the tale, the pieces just didn’t fit. It became a real struggle for me and I remember chewing on it for quite some time.

Then an idea started scratching at the back of my head and wouldn’t go away. Did you ever suddenly remember a thought you haven’t pondered for years, maybe even decades? Well, this is what happened to me. A long lost idea popped into my head and wouldn’t let go, even though it seemed preposterous and I kept dismissing it. Finally, it got to the point where I felt like I had to do something about it.

The fruits of my labor paid off and a story line began to take shape: I’d make Camp Dewey my setting during the summer of 1917—making the release of this book the 100th anniversary of the camp—and the protagonist would be a fifteen year-old cadet.

Childhood memories of the camp came floating back, images kept in the canyons of my mind for decades. I remember one morning getting into my truck and traveling to Point Breeze, seeing it with a fresh set of eyes, surveying the prospects, envisioning the plot lines. I sat in my truck for hours that morning scribbling notes on post-its while watching the boats, breathing in the sea air, listening to the gulls screeching, all the while building a scaffold for the story.

I liked the story’s potential, the only missing piece being information on the day-to-day operation of the camp as it existed one hundred years ago. If I was going to create a summer in the life of a junior midshipman, I needed to create a seamless blend of fact and fiction, and that meant reading up on Uncasville’s junior naval reserve station.

And it was there that I ran smack into a brick wall.

I discovered that virtually no attempts had been made to recognize Camp Dewey’s presence in any detail, let alone reconstruct its past. If anything, the camp was mentioned in passing. From what I could see, it was an unknown legacy to town historians, librarians, military personnel, and even neighbors. Regarding the latter, I received more than a fair share of puzzled expressions, head scratchings, and blank stares when I asked about the place. It is reasonable to say that Camp Dewey had been abandoned without a trace, the boys of the river camp lost and forgotten.

With no research at my fingertips, this meant that I had to roll up my sleeves and dig for the facts myself. I conducted exhaustive literature searches into journals, government documents, camp correspondence, newsletters, and newspaper archives. I drifted back in spirit one hundred years ago to examine records and reports of the fledgling and mostly civilian-driven Junior Naval Reserve, at that time based in New York City. I reached out to Point Breeze property owners and others in the Kitemaug borough with the hope of obtaining photos, documents, diaries, letters, or any kind of oral history about the camp. I was obviously open to anything and everything, and a number of people responded. I acknowledge these contributors at the end of the book.

After several years of gathering information, I finally reached a comfort level with the factual background I’d gathered. I’d versed myself on the camp’s daily routines and regulations, drills and exercises, uniforms and equipment, military protocol and social graces, bivouac sites and rowing destinations. Discovering such information enabled me to create an archive of documentation and verification, as well as a rare scrapbook of photos capturing cadet life at Camp Dewey. I found the photos so fascinating and compelling that I’ve included a sample of them in a separate section of the book.

Buttressed by this broad knowledge base, I was able to create a work of historical fiction, one that reconstructed Camp Dewey as seen through the eyes of an innocent but ambitious cadet. Set during a time when worlds collided, the story captures the frightening reaches of war and how a youngster learns to become a man through the strict, unyielding blanket of military rule. The result is a chronicle of self-discovery and promise, a stark portrait of disappointment and loss, and an uplifting testimony of friendship and hope.

And therein lies an intriguing tale . . .

1 | Journey

THE COACH CAR WAS DIRTY AND NOISY, AND THE trapped air heavy and humid, gripping passengers with the odors of stale tobacco smoke, yesterday’s sweat, old shoes and smelly feet, and every so often, concealed or not so concealed flatulence. Passengers were literally trapped. Every seat was taken and many souls were standing in the aisle, holding on as best they could to the overhead racks. A few brave ones sat on the grimy floor, their bodies rocking back and forth as the train bucked and thumped along the iron rails.

The worn and neglected condition of the coach car was not surprising given the nation’s frenzied demand for rail transportation. With war declared in the past month, extra trains had been hurriedly put into service to transport some of the thousands of military who had been called up and needed transportation to coastal ports, as well as passage on scheduled commercial service. America’s call to battle had quickly become a railroad dispatcher’s nightmare.

The kid was lucky to have gotten a window seat, but he was among the first to board the train earlier in the morning at Boston’s South Station. His mother had seen him off and once he arrived at New London, Connecticut, was expected to meet up with his uncle at the train station. In the meantime, he was on his own.

He looked to be fifteen, give or take a year. Brown haired and handsome, he sat quietly, his hands resting on his lap holding a woolen ball cap. A stuffed canvas duffel bag sat at his feet, sandwiched between his knees.

He was pressed next to the window by a bald and portly businessman whose body weight was starting to list against him and made him wonder if he was better off giving up his seat and standing for the rest of the trip. The guy had started the journey in an undignified sprawl, his legs apart and his elbows extending into the kid’s space. He’d begun reading the morning newspaper but soon abandoned it in favor of taking a morning nap, his head soon bobbing to the motion of the train. He’d also started snoring, spraying his sour breath toward the kid.

A railroad crossing bell sounded faintly in the distance, and the train blasted its horn several times. The bell clanged violently as the train passed it, then died away. The kid tried to ignore the snoring next to him by paying attention to the small towns flashing by, catching an occasional glimpse of the coastline.

A conductor announced Providence as their next stop, which snapped the kid’s neighbor out of his slumber. The train slowed to a crawl and then ground to a halt, brakes squealing, then stopped once more with a short, hard jerk, causing the kid to grasp the underside of his seat. An overhead light flickered and outside the passenger windows the kid could see wispy clouds of coal smoke from the locomotive. Many of the train’s passengers straightened and reached for their belongings, including the kid’s traveling companion.

After they left, the kid eyeballed the influx of new passengers looking for seats, and there were quite a few of them. Most walked right past him to get to the other end of the coach, but a uniformed army sergeant spied the vacancy and moved towards it. He was big, well over six feet with broad shoulders.

He looked at the empty seat, Someone sitting here?

Not now, he just got off the train.

The sergeant sat, removed his service hat and got settled in the seat, straightening his wide shoulders just so. His campaign hat had a scarlet colored cord just above the brim. Clean-shaven, he carried the scent of fresh soap and some kind of spicy aftershave that reminded Henry of his father. His scent was a welcome break from the odors floating around in the air.

He looked over at the kid. Morning, he said, nodding a greeting and wedging a small traveling bag between them.

Good morning, sir, the kid replied. He was always taught to respect men in uniform.

The sergeant smiled. I’m not a ‘sir,’ he replied, just an enlistee. Officers are addressed, ‘sir,’ not sergeants. He extended his hand. My name’s Mike.

The kid shook and looked at him rather nervously, a little surprised that a grown-up stranger could be so friendly. He cleared his throat. I’m Henry.

Does Henry have a last name?

He does, I mean, I do, he stammered. Henry Cameron.

You sure about that? the sergeant asked, amusement in his voice.

Henry cracked a smile. I am.

Cameron, the sergeant said matter of factly. Nice Irish name.

Actually, it’s Scottish, Henry replied.

The kid’s boldness surprised the sergeant and he regarded him silently for a minute. Well now, Henry Cameron, he said, thanks for clearing that up. I’m Mike Freeman and I’m a thoroughbred swamp Yankee.

The sergeant laughed and Henry joined in, although he had no idea what was so funny.

After the conductor passed through and punched everyone’s tickets, he leaned outside the door of the coach and signaled the train to depart the station. The train whistle shrieked and the locomotive gradually picked up steam, continuing its journey.

Henry stared out the window as the countryside clattered by. The train was traveling along at a pretty good clip before it hit something that caused the coach to rock, or at least Henry thought it hit something.

The sergeant smiled at Henry. Just a switch in the tracks, he said.

Henry nodded.

First train ride? the guy asked.

Henry at first acted offended, giving the sergeant a fake frown and puffing out his chest as if he were some kind of world class traveler. Of course not, he said, then regretted the way it came out.

The sergeant smiled and eyed Henry’s duffel bag, arching his eyebrows. Running away from home, are we?

Henry hesitated. No, going away to camp for the summer.

All by yourself?

Yep. He felt pretty grown up saying that.

Where you going, if you don’t mind my asking?

Camp Dewey. He paused. Ever hear of it?

The sergeant thought for a minute. I have. Kind of like a junior naval reserve station or Merchant Marine training camp but for kids not old enough to enlist, right? Somewhere around New London, up on the Thames river?

Henry nodded. Uncasville.

That’s the place. I know someone who sent his son there last year. He joined the Navy shortly after the summer camp was over.

Did he like the camp?

He did. I remember his father telling me the place mimicked a military encampment with rows of tents and a parade ground, and the kids had uniforms and went through calisthenics, dress parades, inspections, that sort of stuff. Said it had a beautiful location, smack dab on the river.

The train traveled a few more miles, its whistle blasting as it chugged past a waterfront village then crossed a small trestle.

The sergeant asked Henry, Your father in the military?

Henry said, He’s in the Merchant Marine.

I see. Going to Camp Dewey was his idea?

Henry nodded again. He told me about it last year and it sounded like fun. My uncle’s an officer there. We thought it would be good training since I’m going to enlist once I’m old enough.

Your father away at sea?

Henry nodded.

The sergeant chewed on this for a minute. What kind of ship?

Tanker.

The sergeant rubbed his chin and fell silent, avoiding any further discussion on that subject, anyway. Tankers were prime targets for German U-boats, of course, and he didn’t want to stir any unnecessary worry in the boy.

They didn’t talk for a while, perhaps hypnotized by the engine rumbling ahead and the clacking rhythm of the rail joints below.

Henry turned in his seat to look at the sergeant’s olive drab uniform, then lifted his eyes. You going over there to fight? he asked hesitantly.

I am. The sergeant said, fiddling with the service hat on his lap. Infantry, he said, almost as an afterthought.

When? Henry had heard stories about the bloody trench warfare going on, the millions of lives lost already, plus the horrors of things like poison gas and disease.

Soon, came the reply. Rumor is we’re going somewhere in France—no big surprise there—but no one knows exactly where. We’ll know when we get there, I suppose. He playfully nudged Henry in the ribs with his elbow. When we do, we’re going to kick the Kaiser’s ass along with all of his kraut soldiers and put an end to this war. He laughed, but maybe tried too hard.

A pause.

You scared? Henry asked innocently. 

A smile creased the sergeant’s face. Now what kind of question is that to ask a loyal and brave soldier in the United States Army? He furrowed his brow, shooting Henry a stern look, then his face softened. Of course I’m scared, all of us are. Anyone who tells you different is a liar. But we’ll go into battle and do as we’re told.

Another pause.

My father says the war has been going on for too long, Henry said.

Your father’s right, and now the Yanks are going to help put an end to it.

Henry stirred when the coach door abruptly opened and the conductor walked through, announcing that New London was the next stop and the train was on time. Henry stuck the ball cap on his head and reached down to grab his duffel bag.

The train whistled its arrival as it clattered across a drawbridge spanning the Thames river. The train slowed almost to a walking pace as it reached the big brick station, making Henry wonder if it would ever stop. Finally, it rocked backwards, coming to a standstill.

The sergeant stood and positioned himself in the aisle so that the push of passengers was blocked, allowing Henry to pass. The sergeant was taller and wider than Henry first thought.

It was nice meeting you, Henry, the sergeant said. He offered his hand and the two shook. The sergeant’s hands were big and strong. Have fun this summer.

Yes, sir, Henry said, I mean, yes, sergeant. He smiled. I will.

The two just stood there for a moment. Henry looked up at the sergeant and then again at his uniform. He knew he should say something, but didn’t really know quite how to say it.

Finally, Henry murmured, Be careful, then darted his eyes to the floor. It was all that his young mind could muster.

The intent was not lost on the sergeant. He reached for the brim of Henry’s ball cap and gently held it between his thumb and forefinger, moving it back and forth a little. He smiled. Thank you, son, he replied. I’ll be fine and we’ll get things straightened out over there, he said, albeit unconvincingly.

Henry turned and joined the other passengers making their way to the coach’s exit. When he got there, the bright sunlight streaming in from the doorway momentarily blinded him and he briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them, cool sea air flooded his lungs, rejuvenating him from the cramped and crowded train trip.

He looked out at the station. He’d finally arrived. Thoughts of the summer adventure awaiting him sent currents of excitement surging through his body, none greater than being on his own for the first time in his life. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this excited, this alive.

He had somewhere special to go. He wondered, briefly, if he should be afraid. After all, he’d lived a protective and carefree life for as long as he could remember and this summer marked the first time he’d left the nest. But he wasn’t afraid, cautious maybe, but not afraid. Instead, he saw himself embarking on a true adventure, a chance to live independently while discovering first-hand the lore and lure of the sea.

He had no way of knowing how his life would be forever changed in this summer of 1917.

2 | Arrival

WHEN HENRY STEPPED OFF the train, there were just as many people waiting to board as there were departing. He struggled to get a grip on his bulky duffel bag and moved away from the crowd as best he could. He was jostled and pushed, and in turn he accidentally bumped into others, prompting him to mumble apologies with his head down and his shoulders hunched.

He walked as far away from the train as he could. It was a cool day, sea gulls screeching and swooping overhead and more of the gloriously fresh sea air filling his lungs. He looked for his uncle, craning his neck this way and that, even standing on his tiptoes but to no avail. Uncle Bill was nowhere to be seen on the platform. He’d specifically told Henry that he’d be waiting for him on the platform when the train arrived from Boston. He wondered if his uncle had forgotten about him or if something bad had happened.

Henry’s coach had emptied and the conductor was helping new passengers climb aboard. Within a few minutes, the train served notice that it was leaving the station, its whistle screaming long and loud and clouds of coal smoke pouring into the air. The engine began building up steam and taking up the slack between the coach cars, the couplings knuckling together and allowing the cars to slowly pull away.

Family and well-wishers on the platform waved goodbye to their loved ones as the train departed, including one young woman who bade farewell while chasing the train along the platform until it was out of sight. Henry didn’t see the sergeant as the train went by, but wished he had. He liked him and enjoyed their time together, in fact he wished it had been longer. He wondered what would become of him.

Henry left the platform and entered the station, gawking up at the tall, wooden beamed ceiling and the shafts of sunlight streaming in through the building’s many windows. As he walked around the lobby looking for his uncle, Henry saw long lines at the ticket windows, many travelers keeping a keen eye on a large overhead sign displaying arrivals and departures. Recruitment posters hung everywhere, encouraging young men to join the war and fight the Hun. Two huge American flags hung from a far wall and almost covered it.

Bill Cameron was nowhere to be seen.

Henry’s arm and shoulder ached from carrying the heavy duffel bag, so he sat down for a spell on a long and crowded wooden bench. He figured he could see his uncle as easily sitting down as he could standing up. On one side of him a young woman was bottle feeding a blanket-wrapped baby, and on the other an elderly man with a scraggly white beard was cleaning the bowl of a pipe with the blade of a jack knife, every so often tapping the pipe against the underside of the bench to loosen the residue.

Henry waited for another ten minutes without any luck. Growing restless, he decided to go wait outside. He hoisted his duffel bag once more, hoping this was the last time he’d have to lug it around.

He’d been to New London before, and knew it was an old whaling city. As he looked around, he was surprised to see how busy the downtown area was. In front of the train station, a wide cobblestone street looped around a tall, granite military monument flanked by cannon and then wound its way uptown, where rows of storefronts were bedecked with colorful striped awnings. In the distance, a tall white church poked its watch tower and steeple high above the city’s skyline.

To Henry’s left, a guard directed traffic at a crossing