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10 September 1945
Bad Orb, Germany
Larry Hull and Doug Donahue and I had said our final goodbyes.
Home addresses exchanged and promises made to keep in touch after
we each get home. I've been with these two men well over a year
through good and bad times - in a true sense, they are my brothers
and I'll miss them. But time now to hop in the back of the truck
taking me along with others to the port embarkation staging area.
There are two located in France. One is at Marseilles and the
other at LeHavre. The anticipation and wait will soon be over
as fast as the boat will take us home. As the truck crossed the
French border headed south, by reading the road signs I knew
Marseilles would be my destination - unfortunately as it developed.
Our truck pulled into a tent city on the far outskirts of
the city in a wooded area in the middle of nowhere, known as
the Calais Staging Area. The camp was bare-bones no frills temporary
establishment out in the boondocks with the bare minimum of necessities
- tents and out door latrines with a cold water tap. Cold water
showers were available to those brave enough to withstand the
chills. Many decided to forego the pleasure. Processing began
immediately as we were assigned to the 102nd Evacuation Hospital.
Fifteen years later in Korea it would be redefined as a "MASH"
unit for field surgeries. Now it was just a shell, without any
nurses, but still staffed by the male medical officers who would
be our superiors on the ship to the USA.
Most of us had retained much of the German Occupational currency
we carried when the US Postal and Army authorities, without notice,
shut down the conduit of obtaining Post Money Orders used to
ship funds home. The 102nd Finance Officer would permit us to
exchange, but not to exceed, precisely the maximum payroll amount
we had drawn each month since the inception of the Occupational
payroll currency. Our payroll records were checked against the
exchange. This did not include any Occupation currency other
than that printed by the US Army. The mandatory first digit in
the serial number being a numeral "1." Any other Occupation
currency was unacceptable. This sum total amount was then converted
to US dollars; leaving most of us who had dealt on the black
market stuck holding several hundred dollars of worthless Occupation
German marks. We greeted new GIs arriving in camp from the States
with a fist full of German marks and told them to spend it as
they pleased when they got to Germany. It was our "going
away" present.
The next surprise was approving weapons we were bringing home
as war trophies. We were all assigned to 12-man squad tents with
wooden floors containing folding canvas cots. At an unannounced
early morning roll call, we were ordered to standby for an inspection.
We called it the "junk-on-the-bunk" routine (harassment)
by having to empty our duffel bag on the cot. Several officers
went through everything laid out confiscating all US Army military
weapons - mainly .45 automatic pistols. If you had a weapon other
than an Army issue, you were required to declare it a "War
Trophy" and register it on a US Customs form, witnessed
by a 102nd officer, including the manufacturer's name and the
serial number of the weapon. I registered my Walther P-38 pistol
as a legitimate captured enemy weapon. Upon later research, from
the serial number I was able to determine that the Spreewerk
Metallwaren, Berlin, made my pistol in 1941. To preclude the
danger of having it stolen, during the day I wore it in a shoulder
holster under my tank jacket 24/7. I slept with it next to my
head in my GI army cot. When taking a shower I would ask a trusted
friend to keep an eye on it and my wallet. GIs are known to steal
things.
Those trying to bring home the prized German Schmeisser machine
pistol (burp gun) were stopped from doing so and the weapon confiscated.
We were also warned that if you were caught trying to smuggle
an unauthorized weapon aboard ship you would be court-martialed
and your trip home delayed. No one wanted to risk that and items
were turned in with no questions asked. We also had to turn in
any ammunition for the weapons we were permitted to retain. They
made this check on weapons squeaky-clean. I knew of no one stupid
enough to risk taking a chance and missing the boat home - not
for any reason!
Passing Gas & Time
The 20-days remaining of September passed and when October
arrived, frustration began to set in. Why the delay? Where are
the boats? What's taking so long to get us moving? Nobody had
any answers as anger resulted in the pent up GIs acting stupid
at night by burning the wooden tables we sat at to eat and the
wooden structures designed to hold our metal helmets to use as
washbasins. The Camp Commander, a bull Colonel, put the word
out that if the fires continued he would lock the camp down and
no one would depart for any reason. So the hot heads had to cool
it.
By now the weather turned bad. It was very cold at night in
the tents without any source of heat. To add to the misery and
frustration, we experienced a lot of rain confining us to the
indoors of the small tents. To break the monotony, some would
roam the perimeter of the camp fence where the local prostitutes
offered their services - the going price? One pack of American
cigarettes for oral sex. The fear of becoming infected with a
venereal disease and being scratched from a boat shipment served
to enforce the abstinence rule.
The full month of October passed and still no information
of when we would ship out. We wondered how much longer we would
have to wait. Finally, on November 4th, we were told tomorrow
was the day. Everyone was up early and packed raring to go on
the BIG day. Semi-cab trucks with open stake-bed trailers were
loaded to capacity to haul us down to the docks. As we drove
through the city of Marseilles, a young teenage punk who appeared
to be one of the thousands of Moroccan immigrants living in the
dock area slums finished eating his apple and flung the remains
at us. It hit me flush in the face. He stood there without moving
and laughed. At this point in my life, he could have thrown his
feces at me without any danger other than my passive reaction
- I was leaving this miserable unwanted part of his world behind,
but he had to remain. Ungrateful bastards. If France needed an
enema, they could insert the tube right there in Marseilles.
The Cruise Ship
We arrived down at the docks to see a single ship tied up
awaiting our arrival. I could not believe my eyes - another God
damn Liberty ship with the name of Charles Goodyear. My recollection
of shipping out of Brooklyn in 1943 on another Liberty ship,
the George Sharswood, brought back grim memories. This ship was
the same as the other except it was built for WSAT (War Shipping
Administration Transport) as a non-cargo troop carrying ship,
USAT (US Army Transport) class EC2-S-C1. It was built in the
Oregon Shipping Corporation - Kaiser Boatyards at Vancouver,
Washington on hull #0587. It was designed to hold 550 troops
with 5-tier rows of bunks. It was also used to carry German prisoners
to the USA - only in numbers totaling 308 prisoners. Indicating
the POWs had more personal room than the American soldier by
comparison. It was a small sea going vessel measuring 441 feet
long, a beam of 57 feet and a draft of 27 feet below the water
line. The two steam boilers were rated at a top speed maximum
11 knots with a single propeller. This tub was not going to set
any Atlantic speed records - far from it.
The medical officers from the 102nd shared the topside rooms
that had been reserved for the US Naval gun crews during the
war and now absent. We were in the holds in the tiered bunks
as the ship pulled away from the docks headed out into the Mediterranean
Sea for the Straits of Gibraltar and the open sea. The ship had
to pause to take on water for ballast as it wallowed from side
to side making very little forward progress. Day one was November
5, 1945. I do not believe the ship ever reached the maximum speed
capable of 11 knots at any time during this long voyage. More
and likely the speed was closer to 5 knots per hour.
Naturally, gambling was the primary method of breaking the
monotony. For others, such as myself, I found a comfortable place
topside to sit and reflect - reviewing my notations of where
I had been and what had happened in the past two years I had
spent overseas. The sights, sounds and even smells were recalled
each step of the way that would never be forgotten - not to mention
the faces of those who weren't coming back.
I was deep in thought about going home as I switched off that
memory of the recent past and began to think of what might I
expect when I arrived home. I knew nothing ever remains the same
and knew there would be changes. Both the world and I had changed.
At the same time, I was well aware that my personality and rationale
had also undergone a change. The expression "You can't go
home" fits in here perfectly. The home you once knew no
longer exists - physically or mentally.
In Limbo
Lingering in the back of my mind, I had a "slight problem"
I would have to deal with upon arriving home. During my first
furlough home in February 1943, two years prior, I foolishly
acquiesced to an unplanned engagement to my attractive nineteen
year old Italian girlfriend, with whom I had been intimately
involved, prior to enlisting. It was one more glaring example
of my folly of youth. Upon arriving home, agreeing to cut the
Gordian knot after a two year absence would not prove to be too
difficult for either of us, as it developed.
There was a lot of uncertainty I had to reconcile at the appropriate
time. I set it all aside and let the world go by, counting my
good fortune - I'm a survivor coming home, even though it was
on a very slow boat. On deck with my thoughts to myself, the
fresh salt air and sunshine served to clear my head so that I
was able to take stock of where I had been; in addition to what
I had done and where I might be headed Rather than be overly
concerned with the unforeseeable events in the future, I really
did not contemplate any long-range thoughts. Not knowing what
the future would hold (Destiny held all the cards) it all could
wait until I arrived home and I would sort them all out one by
one. The Army had taught me what would become a life long problem-solver
- "Take 'em one at a time."
Sixteen days after we departed France we pulled into the Boston
harbor on November 21st - two days shorter than my trip going
overseas. Trucks met us at the dock and transported us to Fort
Devens, Massachusetts for processing. The first night on post
we were treated to a steak dinner served on the line by the cooks
who were German POWs. By the noticeable size of their well-fed
girth, they must have been prisoners for more than a single year.
Perhaps Frau Decker's son was one of them? All were fat and seemed
very happy in the land of plenty. Why not, there was very little
to eat in their Fatherland and wouldn't be for several years.
On the 23rd they sorted us out and loaded us on to trains
headed to all parts of the country. The troop train I was on
left late in the day, but I was too keyed-up and unable to sleep
as my mind wandered. I sat up and remained awake all night just
staring out the window at the beautiful sight of seeing towns,
villages, homes, city streets illuminated with bright lights
after two years of total darkness. This was one of the many small
simple pleasures of life taken for granted that I had missed.
The End of the Road
We arrived in Chicago the next morning, the 24th and later
at the military depot adjoining Fort Sheridan, Illinois. The
same place I had enlisted at three years prior. It was cold with
snow on the ground, but we didn't feel it as we were too emotionally
charged by this time. I was wound as tight as a drum. As soon
as we were assigned quarters and fed, they started the paper
work mill of processing. Everything had to be checked and double-checked;
first by the NCOs and then signed off by the responsible officer
of each section beginning with the medical department, supply,
personnel and last the finance department. The morning of the
25th involved more processing, typically everything was done
"by-the-numbers" and they cut the hurry-up-and-wait
time to a minimum in between moving from one building to another.
The last day, November 26th was the final check out with the
clerks typing the Enlisted Record and Report of Separation (Form
DD214) with all the essential information required. Included
with the person's service time, overseas time, grade at discharge,
awards and decorations and the important finance data. I received
$2.95 travel pay to my home of record and $399.99 Separation
Pay.
Other than the clothes I needed to wear going home, I declined
any offer of my clothing. The one exception was that I had to
surrender my tank jacket, which I had wished to retain, but would
not let that single item stand in my way of receiving that piece
of paper I long sought - my Honorable Discharge from the Army!
The sun had gone down when they finished all of my records, paid
me in full and wished me good luck. I quickly made the short
walk to the train station and began my return to civilian life
once more.
Had I been able to have foreseen the future, back then I might
have reenlisted in Major General Ernest Harmon's post war Regular
Army, the Army of Occupation of Germany Constabulary; rather
than having accepted the discharge and reenlisting later.
Adios amigos. It has been one helluva experience of life.
Mister Don R. Marsh
Publication or reproduction, in part or whole,
is prohibited without written permission from the author, Don
R. Marsh. All rights remain the sole property of The Marsh Family
Trust.
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