Shortly after we joined the Army and moved to Akranas (Iceland) we got word that we were going to get another series of shots, given by medics with hypodermic needles. We lined up alphabetically by rank and, with one medic on each side of the line, shots were given simultaneously in both arms. We hadn't got very far when our "Asiatic" Marine, Sergeant Parker ("Pop"), stepped between the medics and awaited his turn. Nothing happened as the medics both tried to insert a needle in his arms, but they would not penetrate. Well, old Pop had worked out every day for several hours for many years and even though he was tall and thin, his muscles were like steel. After several attempts the medics agreed he didn't need any shots. Old Pop just smiled — he'd been through this before.
Also about that time the Army decided we needed additional ID. We all had dog tags but nothing else. One day the photographers arrived with the mail boat so we all had to find a shirt and again, line up alphabetically by rank at the hut that served as PX, rec-room and meeting hall to get our pictures taken. The ID card was the World War I, Signal Corps leatherette, three-part, fold-out form. When folded it was about the size of a driver's license.
On the outside it said "U.S. Army Signal Corps Identification Card." When it was opened, your name, rank, serial number and organization (like 3-K-6 — in those days the battalion number always came first) were on the left panel. The center panel held your picture with you holding a small sign that was used for attaching the letters of your name and your rank, under your name was USMC. On the right panel were prints of the right hand's five fingers. When all this was accomplished, we Marines were officially in the Army.
Things began picking up. Now we got supplies twice a week and the quality and quantity of the food increased beyond our wildest dreams. Our PX got a lot of new items and it became a full-time job for Sgt. George Freeberg, whereas in the past he worked there for a couple of hours at night or when the spirit moved him. Some of the guys were thinking they should have joined the Army in the beginning. For me personally, I couldn't fault the Army's way of doing things. I got called to Captain Lloyd's quarters one day (he had a house at the entrance to the camp) and he asked me how long I'd been the BAR man. "Ever since I'd been in K Company," I replied. "Well," he said, "the Army wants to recognize your dedication and since September 22 you have been classified as a specialist and will receive specialist's pay of $5.00 per month."
We still didn't have sheets and most of our blankets hadn't been washed since we left Charleston. The blast of cold, fresh air one got when leaving the hut was more than welcome. Late one Sunday, word was passed for all hands to assemble in the rec-hall. When we were all squeezed in, Captain Lloyd read a message he'd received — that Pearl Harbor had been bombed by the Japanese. For a moment there was dead silence, then bedlam broke out
— yelling, shouting, jumping up and down, hats being thrown in the air and laughter.
After a few minutes of this came the quiet, somber reflection of what it meant. The ambiguity of mixed emotions was in sharp contrast to our original reaction. The old-timers began to recall shipmates stationed at or near Pearl Harbor. The thought of what an inhumane thing to do — attack without warning — brought a cold, silent, burning anger. Our news for the next few days was sketchy, but spirits began to soar — this was what we had been training for. As soon as we could get over there we'd give 'em hell. What were we doing here in Iceland, half a world away from the action?
Nothing about our routine changed and time dragged. On Christmas Eve the people who lived in the house across the street from the Guard House brought over trays of home-baked pastries. This was the first time local citizens acknowledged our presence. We decided to put on a dance and it went off fairly well, but it was so heavily chaperoned that it was impossible to tighten an arm about those sweet young things. The sun had now left us to go south, so we had only a few hours of daylight. Reveille was at 0800, breakfast at 0900, lunch at noon and we knocked off work at 1500. Dinner was usually at 1700. We played every game known to mankind, but the monotony was hard to bear, especially because it was dark all the time.
Suddenly one day we were notified to pack our personal belongings and 782 gear, but to leave everything else where it was. Then we were to go to the rec-hall to draw sheets and make beds for Army replacements who were on their way. Great day in the morning! We were ready when the boat arrived and every bunk in the camp was short-sheeted, including those of the officers, and every stove was full of rocks. The boat that would carry us to Reykjavik was a standard Icelandic fishing scow about 60 feet long and not equipped to carry passengers, but it looked like the grand ocean liner Ile de France (right) to us.
As the soldiers unloaded there was much barking on both sides and one of them asked if the local girls were friendly. We replied, "Primed and ready! Just touch 'em on the shoulder." It was dark by the time we got aboard and stowed our gear as best we could. The skipper started out to sea and almost immediately we felt a stiff breeze blowing. The sea became a bit rough but we didn't think much of it. Most of us had made the trip a time or two and the sea was always rough. Normally it took about 90 minutes to make the crossing (Akranas to Reykjavik), depending upon the weather. As we kept moving out to sea the weather became increasingly worse and it began to rain — a cold, wind-driven rain that cut into any exposed part of the body. We didn't have ponchos; just dress greens that soon became waterlogged.
The scow had begun to pitch and roll in the heavy sea and, in no time at all, most became seasick. Henry Edelstein, who used to get seasick standing on the dock, was the first to get rid of his lunch, but he had a lot of company. We had a young fellow from West Virginia named Radcliff who was short and small-boned, but tough as nails and a good fighter. He had picked the scow's fantail as his spot and leaned over the rail.
There was so little freeboard [distance between the water line and the ship's uppermost full deck] that when the bow plowed up a wave the fantail was in the trough between waves and Radcliff's head would be under water with bubbles floating to the surface. He was so sick and miserable that he didn't have the strength or will to change his position. Of course, we were packed like sardines on that deck and there really was no place to go. I ended up holding his head above water for about two hours so he wouldn't drown.
Now the waves began crashing over the deck like a swift moving river. We were kept busy trying to save packs, seabags, rifles and people. Someone said he had to pee and a reply came, "Piss in your pants — it won't make any difference!" Time was not important but reaching our ship was — after all, we were going home. Someone checked the time and found we had been out for nearly three hours.
The storm didn't abate and we were beginning doubt we'd get to our destination. We were weak, listless, soaked, cold and afraid the scow would sink. When we'd been out for five hours, we spotted lights and the captain struggled to bring the scow ashore. I'm convinced that only a hardened Icelandic fisherman could have accomplished the feat that he had with only himself as crew. We finally were in a harbor and found a place to tie up. We had no idea of our location so the captain went ashore to find out where we were.
He came back shortly to tell us we were 15 miles northeast of Reykjavik — we'd passed it in the storm. No one knew we'd made the crossing and there were no ships in the area. Captain Lloyd sent out search parties to scour the waterfront for any kind of an American or British ship that could be found. We were sloshing along in the dark and rain when one of the guys yelled, "Look at that!" There was a single large ship tied up at a pier to our left. Before we tried to board we sent a runner (Ha, ha — he could barely walk) back to Captain Lloyd so he could board and explain our position.
Lloyd was a huge man who had played guard for the Naval Academy's football team in the '30s. Not many people challenged him. The skipper of the ship was flabbergasted at what he saw, and took us down to the mess hall, which was promptly soaked from our dripping clothes. He then gathered his mess crew and ordered that we be fed. There wasn't anything that wasn't hard frozen except a huge pot of chili and beans simmering on the stove. The chief mess cook kept going from table to table apologizing for not having any meat for us. "Don't bother me, boy. I'm eating this here chili and crackers."
We finally found out that this was a Navy supply ship of some kind, but what they were doing in this small port was unclear. We didn't care. They radioed headquarters and let them know our position and we learned that two destroyers had been sent out to look for us when we were overdue, but after a couple of hours with no success the search was called off and we were presumed lost at sea. Finally a fleet of trucks arrived and as we left the ship the captain stood at the gangway and shook every man's hand. It should have been the other way around. We had just finished the best meal we ever had. We offered to swab the mess hall's floor, but he wouldn't hear of it. We piled into the trucks and huddled together to stay warm for the ride to the dock where the ship was tied up that would be our transportation home. It was the USS Munargo.
The next day, 31 January 1942, we left Iceland for the States. The trip back was a carbon copy of the trip over, but the ship had a lighter load so that made for a rougher voyage. I had the 4-to-8 watch again, but this time on the bridge. We got to New York harbor just before dusk on 8 February. We were informed that as soon as we finished unloading the ship, the next day we'd be paid and given a 15-day furlough plus five days' traveling time, then we were to report to Camp Elliott. We were jubilant. Many of us saw the Statue of Liberty and the New York skyline for the first time. We all slept well that night.
The next day (9 February) was a dark day for the US Navy. The French luxury liner Normandie had been in New York harbor when war broke out in Europe in 1939. In December 1941, it was expropriated by the US Maritime Commission for use as a troopship. It had been turned over to the Navy the day we arrived in New York. On 9 February, fire broke out on the ship and burned all day. The ship finally capsized at the dock (photo, right). We weren't really concerned about this except that the Munargo was tied up two piers downwind from the Normandie.
We completed unloading about 1500 hours and were preparing to get paid and get our furlough papers. It was bad enough inhaling smoke all day, but when we stood in line to get paid we nearly got asphyxiated as well. The smoke came in a direct line to the Munargo and engulfed her. I was a Pfc. at the time, so I was close to the rear of the line, but I was happy my name started with "B".
Those of us who were going to the Midwest caught the New York Central Lake Shore Limited train that left Grand Central Terminal at 2330 hours. Our first big adventure was over.
