Non-Combatants at War


February 19, 1992|By EDGAR L. JONES

Soon after the Pearl Harbor attack, which drew this country into World War II, there came almost daily, unrelated attacks much closer to home. The German naval command lost little time in trying to cut off all shipments of American supplies to the beleaguered British.

From mid-January of 1942 the East Coast was blackened by ruptured freighters and tankers as half a dozen U-boats had free rein until mid-summer, when the U.S. Navy belatedly established an effective system of convoys and air cover.

March, 1942, was particularly damaging: 95 ships lost in the Atlantic area, 48 of them in coastal waters, and not a U-boat destroyed. Yet American civilians seemed only dimly aware of the submarine menace; otherwise I surely would have been more fearful when the American Field Service that same March booked passage for another fellow and myself on a British freighter bound for the Middle East, where we were to become ambulance drivers for the British Eighth Army.

The women's service volunteer who delivered George Tener and me to a Brooklyn dock cried visibly as we headed up the gangplank with our gear. She may have been appalled by the rusty, beaten-up appearance of the vessel, or she may well have been more aware than we neophytes of what lay ahead.

Our awakening came after the heavily laden ship reached open water beyond New York harbor. No convoy awaited us. No protective destroyer. Nothing but our lone freighter with its hold full of military equipment and four crated aircraft sitting on deck.

The danger was real enough. Days came when Sparks, the radio operator, reported a dozen SOS's during the previous night. If the distress call was in our direction, the bridge officer immediately changed course to stay clear of lurking submarines. The safety of the cargo took precedence over rescue attempts, which left each defenseless freighter on its own.

The isolation struck home to me when a pre-departure vaccination became a nasty abscess. The inflammation spread, my temperature got to 103 degrees, and the only salvation was the young third mate's readiness to try his scalpel. The fever waned after his slicing, but the pus drained inward, causing sleepless nights of burning hives.

The ship itself, only 15 months old, had already been through eight air raids in home waters. Its crew members were fatalistic, none more so than the first mate, who was so certain the ship would be ''pipped'' that he carried all his emergency equipment and prized possessions to the bridge each time he went on duty. His premonition was seconded the fifth day out when a Somali stoker appeared on deck in his shore clothes, suitcase in hand, and raved long and loudly that the ship was about to be sunk. A dead relative had told him so.

For the captain this trip was his first command after years of taking orders. The chief engineer formerly had run a razor-blade factory. The steward had been a night-club waiter. The zigzag course to Capetown, South Africa, consisted of 34 days of

making do by a makeshift crew. As the meat began to spoil, doses of curry became heavier. Intestinal complaints were commonplace. Men in the engine room keeled over in equatorial heat. The chief engineer tapped into the fresh-water supply to spare his condensers, and the last several days the ship was without washing water, used salt water in the boilers and ran at half speed to ration the little remaining coal.

For Tener and Jones the seemingly endless days of empty ocean, cut off from all other human contact, had a nightmare quality of being adrift in another world. We made do by reading, playing cards and writing in our journals. For exercise we helped chip paint and scrape rust, a tedious chore.

We could not be told our exact location, but the sun's direction and differences in time and temperatures gave us the general idea. At night the stars indicated abrupt changes of course as danger loomed. By 6 p.m. portholes were closed, blackout strictly enforced, and our small stateroom became a stifling cell. The ventilation was much worse below deck, where crewmen were housed.

Especially at night we two Americans spent long hours on deck to move and breathe more freely and talk with shipmates. We came to have greater appreciation of the ordinary seamen, who were poorly fed, poorly housed and grossly underpaid. On their floating targets, out of touch with the world at large, they had come to think of themselves as having no other options. If they were lucky enough to get back to their home ports after a sinking or two, their civilian clothes did not gain them the respect given to uniformed personnel. Some even were handed white feathers.

Capetown was our great escape. For three days we got ashore to savor the sights, sounds and smells of city life. Once we learned that ''For Europeans Only'' did not exclude Americans we ate and drank like proverbial sailors while our ship had its boilers flushed out and supplies brought aboard, including dusty deck mounds of precious coal.

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