Troop Ship 76

In World War II, newspapers, patriotic films, radio, and magazines were replete with pictures of P-47's zooming through the skies, PT boats spraying vee-shaped foam at high speeds, aircraft carriers tossing torpedo planes aloft, and Marines sprinting ashore to storm the beaches. 

We knew it made the folks at home feel better,  which was just fine.  We also knew that our vessels were as unglamorous as the U.S. Navy had. We were the “blocking guards,” the military's “grunts.” Which was also just fine with us. Working around the clock for weeks on end didn't put us in the news. But it moved the map markings across the Pacific and up the China Sea toward Tokyo.

Not even the Navy gave us much attention. In one sense, we were invisible, which was also just fine. A senior officer yelled at me only once in the entire war, which was not par in any part of the military. In fact, “dressing down” seemed to be almost part of the Navy Manual.  

That occasion is worth describing under its circumstances. 

While we were backing off a beach after unloading multi-thousands of aircraft parts for the Samar Marine operation, I received a coded message from my group commander to proceed to a spot in the Leyte Gulf off Samar. He didn't usually bother with coded messages, so we knew there was something different about this order. It was different all right.

Reef

 As we approached the location, we could see at once why we had been sent, why the message had been coded, and what we had to do. A large troop ship was at an odd angle in the water, not moving and not anchored. It was obviously hung on a reef. 

Even without circling the vessel, we could see its relationship to the reef, so I eased toward it so that we could “tie to" from a point farthest from the reef. 

USS Dorthea L. Dix in port during World War II

 There were hundreds of soldiers on deck. A reasonable estimate of its capacity was over a thousand men, possibly two. The rail side was solid men from stem to stern, waving at us. The captain was at the railing, too. He was not happy.
 
As I eased us to the ship, we could hear him screaming epithets, encompassing some of the most flowery language I ever heard. (In the military, that's an achievement). He was making it clear that, if I didn't do exactly what he ordered me to do, he'd “have my ---.” 

Ignoring him, I focused on the O.D. (Officer of the Deck) because he was the one who would have to tell the sailors what I would need them to do. I signaled for the troop ship's crew to toss lines from two spots on their ship to places on my port and starboard bows, where the lines could be cleated.   

Happily, the O.D. cooperated with me instead of paying attention to his captain. The lines came over correctly, my men secured them at once, and I began backing away, tightening the lines. I had determined which direction to tow, so the troop ship would slip off the reef, rather than grind against it. Shortly, the monster vessel assumed a more natural posture in the water, and, in another few moments, I felt the lines slacken. My men released them, letting us coast free and the trooper rocked slightly. 

As the troop ship righted, a roaring cheer like a stadium touchdown rolled across the water. The Officer of the Deck crossed himself. The captain disappeared. 

My group commander never said a word about the incident. On the record, his and mine, the occasion never happened. He didn't want that, nor did I want to go through an investigation, and the troop ship captain sure didn't want to face a court martial. 

I've always felt good about that memory. My crew was typically magnificent. Bert Singer, a junior officer, got to ignore an “eagle” captain, and over a thousand soldiers had a funny story to take home about a funny little ship that brightened their war.

Cro-Magnon

Northern Spain's latitude is comparable with Seattle's. Although parts of southern Spain look a bit like Arizona, its Castille (Castle) District is lush and lovely. Roads tend to follow “topo” contours. One doesn’t drive past it; one drives in it. That makes travel in the north of Spain leisurely and enchanting. One is tempted to go back and do it again.

On this day I had reluctantly left Portugal for Compostela in Northern Spain. I knew I had plenty of time to reach Gijon before evening. I would have time to thoroughly examine the countryside that had been brought to my attention when I had been a teenager.

Back then, two friends at the Y.M.C.A. had been studying Spanish intensively. When the Spanish Civil War erupted, they had managed to arrange spending a year in northern Spain, because that was where “it was happening.”

Two letters came describing where they had been. But People with Guns in a war don't ask for passports, so I knew they were at serious risk. When no third letter ever arrived, I assumed the worst. 

I've read several volumes on that sad, quirky, and confused struggle. As I piloted through the gently undulating wooded fields, I began to see ghosts. Were my high school friends there somewhere?

Eventually, looking down a side road to what appeared to be a bakery, I decided that it was waiting for me with food. I eased up the side slope. The baker was surprised and pleased that a "Yankee" had ventured so far into the back country. He came around from behind his display and shook my hand vigorously.

We got into a general conversation. When he learned that I was a classroom teacher, he pointed to a large jar in which were coins and paper notes. A sign pasted around the jar read "para los ninos" (for the children). I offered to put some money into the jar. He shrugged.

Some minutes later, he said if I was in no hurry, he could show me “something special.” He led me away from his shop across a field. We crossed a rivulet to a sharp incline opposite his bakery. There he paused, taking a flashlight from his pocket. Carefully pushing through some heavy brush, he revealed a hole in the hillside. At the entrance to what I could now see was a cave, he bent and stepped in, holding the flashlight so I could follow.

The cave was about twelve feet in diameter. It had a dome shape. I could not quite stand erect. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I made out along the few surfaces what I recognized at once as Cro-Magnon murals. This rural baker had led  me back in time 25,000 years!

Some miles to the east, I knew, are world-famous, well-advertised, and government protected caves covered with these wonders of art. This one was small, isolated, and, from the minimal tracks across the field and at the entrance, rarely ever visited, even by locals.

If these were fakes, they were fabulous fakes, and no one was making any money off them.

The baker was in no hurry to get back to his shop. He never knew how much, if anything, I might put in the “ninos” jar. The only thing he asked of me was to drink a cup of his coffee back at the bakery. (It was awful.) Oh, and to tell him more about my own school room experiences.

What an interesting tradeoff. Even up: I tell him about my classroom, and he takes me to Cro-Magnon originals!

Trapeze

Reaching my sixth birthday included a rite of passage of sorts.  No one made a statement; but I recognized my new status, because I was then allowed to walk unattended the one block to Stanyan Street, and the one more block along Stanyan to the Golden Gate Park entrance so I could go the remaining fifty yards to the big swings, parallel bars, chinning bar, and trapezes.

It wasn't that I could use any of them very well.  I couldn't.  But it meant that I was no longer compelled to use only the “little kids” equipment in the rest of the park's huge playground area, the area forbidden to boys twelve and older.  This gymnastic equipment was for those who could do chin-ups, flips, and vaults, and who didn't cry when they landed on an ear or elbow.  And I didn't have to take my sister in tow.  I was about to become “the daring young man.”

The horizontal bar was too high for me to jump up to; but I could shinny up the support and ease out over the middle.  I saw myself doing one-and-one half tucks and “barrel rolls.”  At least I could see myself soaring until I got up there and hung by my knees.  Then I decided to settle for dropping off and landing on my feet.  All I had to do was count... like to ten, and kick out....That was all. Yeah.

As I began to count, twenty seemed more appropriate, and then thirty.  When an older boy (every boy there was older) mounted the trapeze and did a back flip at the peak of his swing, I decided watching and learning was more imperative than dropping off right then.

I began to wonder if I could get off at all. As my head was beginning to throb, when I was addressed by a boy I couldn't see.

“Hey, Kid,” I heard. “You stuck?”  Twisting my head, I saw a wiry boy, hands on hips, grinning at me. 

       

Getting my hands back on the bar, I pulled myself where I could see between my knees.  I glared at him.  I could tell by his posture and build that he had to be good at this kind of thing.

“That's not so hard to do,” he assured me. “In fact,” he said, “it's easy.”

       

“You're twelve!” I snapped back. Twelve was when any boy could do anything. At the moment I was wishing heartily that I was twelve.

       

He stepped over to where I hung and said gently, “Look, just swing out a little.  I'll spot you.” 

I'd no idea what “spot” meant, but it beat counting forever. Anyway, I felt that he wouldn't let me land on my neck. I knew that if I arrived home with any blood my free trips to the park alone were kaput.

He had me hang again by my knees, then swing out. At my highest swing, he put a hand on my chest, saying, “Drop!”

My landing was almost graceful. Then he helped me again twice before he made me do it alone.  I was exhilarated.  After my solo drop, he went over to the trapeze and (I realized later) showed off. One act was to swing out, let go, and twist back onto the bar.  I was in awe.  When he was done, I asked him how he got to be that good.

Polytechnic High School was next to the park.

“I'm on the Poly gymnastic team,” he said. (Eventually, I would attend Poly High.)

“And I'm fourteen, not twelve.”

He said that any time we met at this equipment area, he'd teach me things.  We never met again. But I kept one piece of his advice without fail. I'd asked him what I needed to do to get like him.

       

“Get joggers that fit,” he told me. “And never keep loose change in them.”

After that, when I returned to the trapeze area, I'd take a few minutes to sift through the sand.  I uncovered a nickel once.

How NOT To

St. Paul Church in San Francisco

The teen church group I was in flourished. Led by two excellent adults who kept us organized and occupied, attendance was regular with a good mix of girls, boys, and ages. Discussions at meetings had good participation.

 

Jean seldom said much at the meetings, but the adults were thrilled with her, as she volunteered naturally, and she could type up a storm.  That was not taken casually, as the typewriter in those days was a dinosaur.  She did everything with a room-lighting smile.  She was, in fact, a very pretty girl, too.

I hadn't given her much attention, but when one of the adults said to me that Jean's mother had called to ask if one of us boys would mind “seeing” Jean home after meetings, as it was several blocks, I didn't hesitate.

No problem, I said.

The third time I'd walked Jean home, I invited her to a Friday evening dance.  Her response was so instant that even I could tell that she'd been waiting for me to do something.

Friday went very well. Both of us had really enjoyed the evening. At her doorway at the top of the stairway, she put a key into the lock then turned toward me, smiling.  I bent and kissed her.

 

I'm sure she was not surprised.  But I was. 

Reflexively, I had stepped back...off of the landing. She gave a little scream and vanished. I found myself looking up at the night sky while cradled in a bush. I was not even scratched, probably because of the heavy overcoat I'd worn against the chill Bay Area nights.

In a flicker, she was there, panicked, asking if I was “all right,” and urging me to go into the house to let her folks see to my wounds.  One thing I was NOT going to do was reveal my embarrassment to her parents.  I reassured her.  Then I went home.  My own parents never learned a thing.

On our next date, we went up on her porch again and I observed that we went to the far end away from the staircase.

On teen meeting evenings I began to pick her up at her home, walking us to the church, and I noticed that she took my arm as we descended the stairs.  She was not going to see me plunge into that bush again.

I missed a lot at the discussions after the “fall.”  We routinely sat together, with my passing her notes I’d brought from home.  Sometimes they were more than just notes.  She would fold them into the Bible she brought to the meetings.

We dated regularly that school year until her family moved to Sonoma. She gave me her new address but she didn't write.  Neither did I.

After more than half a century, an e-mail appeared on my computer with a sender name that meant nothing.  I almost sent it to “junk mail” but decided instead to have a look.

It was Jean, now a grandmother many times over. She wrote that she had been going through memorabilia and had come across those notes. She saved, she wrote, “everything” and reading them again had prompted her to get in touch. She wouldn't tell me what I'd written, though. I guess I'm glad I don't remember. When an idiot teen doesn't even realize he's about to kiss a very pretty girl, it's quite likely he wrote stuff he's happier not recalling.