The Tale of Two Ocean Voyages

ProetryPlace Blog 35, Soldiering Part 8

THE TALE of TWO OCEAN VOYAGES

    Dolly flew to Europe in the summer of 1954 during her vacation from teaching. I met her in Paris. All the wonders of art and entertainment that the city had shown me paled in comparison to seeing her. We were together in a small room in the Grand Hotel that looked out on the angels and the gargoyles of the Paris Opera House. By the time we had visited the pebbled beaches of Nice on the French Riviera, climbed the leaning tower in Pisa, waved to the small white dot in a distant window at the Vatican that was alleged to be Pope Pius XII and met her friend Lila under the clock tower in Bern, Switzerland, we were promised to each other.

    After Bern, the three of us, Lila, Dolly and I, traveled by rail through the countryside, chatting and looking out on the broad Swiss landscape. Light brown cattle and picturesque chalets spotted lush green valleys as our coach window rumbled past the scenic vistas. Distant craggy mountains framed the scene. I bought sausage, cheese and pastries for our noon repast from a vendor at one of the stations we passed through. Our bright small talk diminished into thoughtful silence as we approached our final destination in France where our joyful journey would end and we would say goodbye.

    That night I left Dolly in Le Havre where she boarded the Georgic, the Cunard ocean-liner that would take her home, thousands of miles away from me. I was alone again, desolate but very much in love.

    Our trip home was wonderful. We met the funniest English boys. Dolly’s first letter after returning home spoke of her wonderful ocean voyage and the two fun-loving English lads she and Lila had got to know so well, joking, dancing and drinking until all hours—and who knows what else, I thought.

    How could she have enjoyed herself so while I am suffering and miserable, missing her each moment, living in a tent, trying to save my money and eating army mess? Did she have no feelings? Did she love me at all, as I loved her?

    A few letters later, she wrote: Fr. Heupper, at Christ King Church in Wauwatosa, wants you to have instruction in the Catholic faith if he is to marry us in his church.

    I bristled, as I always do at seeming arbitrarily imposed authority, but buoyed by the knowledge that she was proceeding with our wedding plans. I went off in search of the French country priest who regularly visited the army post to serve the faithful.

    The black-robed cleric and I met on two or three occasions. His concept was simple instruction where my approach leaned more towards discussion. Both of us were hampered by the language barrier. The priest understood no English whatsoever and could not respond to my questions. My French was inadequate to deal with the esoteric precepts and rituals of the religion, and my mind was unwilling to accept dogma without establishing a rational basis. Moreover, having been reared Evangelical Lutheran, I had been taught to view this more ritualistic religion as somewhat distasteful.

    What to do? I could not allow religious differences to become a barrier to uniting with Dolly, but this approach was not working. I reluctantly and prematurely gave up the struggle to accommodate Heupper’s wishes and cancelled any further meetings with the priest. I was prepared, however, to exaggerate the extent of my knowledge of Catholicism for the good father’s gratification if necessary.

    In the US, record high temperatures plagued the Midwest and severe hurricanes battered the east coast, killing hundreds. The first children received Salk vaccine to prevent polio and plans progressed for the interstate highway system proposed by the newly elected President, Dwight D. Eisenhower.

    That fall Marty and I travelled to Holland. We saw the lowland dikes, working windmills and quaint cottages on the Isle of Marken. In Amsterdam, I bought souvenir blue and white Dutch china, a porcelain windmill for Grandma Spear and a magnificent .25 carat diamond engagement ring.

    Time crept forward into winter until my tour of duty in France ground slowly to an end. I received orders at my desk in Battalion Headquarters for myself and a handful of others to depart Sampigny Chemical Depot just when it seemed impossible for us to return home in time for the holidays. I crammed my duffel with a few personal items and the Government Issue clothing that would remain in my possession when I returned to civilian life—stowed unseen for decades in dark attics, like many memories they might evoke. I bid adieu to army buddies who had become true friends over the past months—Sgt. Rene LeClaire, Cpl. George Martin Bliss and others whose faces are clear after sixty years but whose names now defy recall.

    I departed Bremerhaven, Germany in December 1954 on a hulking, gray troop ship bound for the Port of New York.  Cold and dismal North Atlantic fog enclosed us day after day, keeping all spirits subdued in spite of hopeful and happy anticipation of our return home. Below, the diesels and propellers throbbed relentlessly, pushing through the rough and frigid waters. Each day ground by the same as the last: morning mess before dawn (no eggs), then a look above decks if the sea was not too rough. Back below to stretch out on the cramped bunks stacked four-high in the bowels of the transport, reading or writing or thinking about the past 18 months away from home or the new life that would open soon before me. Noon mess, dinner—the hours and days churned by like the agonizing progress of the laboring ship.

    One morning that promised still another day of impatient waiting, I ventured on deck in semi-darkness. The usual morning mist and fog surrounded me, but something was different. The sea was serene, and the churning propellers worked more easily. I strained my eyes, attempting to pierce the fog. Were those ships to starboard? No. Too many. Too tall. And more to port.

    I stood, puzzled and transfixed. Gradually, a dark skyline grew and became distinct as we moved up the Hudson River. I saw skyscraper windows sparkling through the fog like giant Christmas trees, in stark contrast to the unlighted, rural French towns to which I had become accustomed. The silent ship surged slowly forward and dawn brightened into day.

    Liberty appeared, small and insignificant at first, until I recognized her with torch held high, welcoming me home. What a magnificent sight she was! A patriotic thrill surged through me. The hair on the back of my neck tingled and bristled, my throat grew tight, my eyes misted.

    The USA, bright lights and Liberty!

    “Liberty!” I shouted and waved furiously. Home at last, home again at last.

    The big ship rested finally, uneasy, straining against the hawsers that held her to the pier, but barely moving on the swells caused by passing harbor traffic. Gangplanks were placed. Each returning soldier stood impatiently at his bunk, one hand resting on the heavy, olive-drab duffel-bag that held his army gear and a souvenir or two for the folks at home, waiting, waiting for the speakers to blare orders to disembark. Finally on shore, more hours of sorting and processing before being shuttled by bus to interim destinations, as if time was of no concern.

    Late on that winter afternoon, much like the one when I had left Milwaukee two  years earlier, I boarded the DC3 that carried me from Newark, New Jersey to home again just in time for Christmas, Mom’s special spaghetti and, of course, my bride-to-be.

Fin