Orders arrived near mid-night on Monday, September 11, 1944 while the battle raged in Europe. Carrying full field packs, we boarded a train at Fort Dix, NJ under cover of darkness. The train moved to an unkown destination to the north, which we recognized later, the quays on New York City's lower west side at three o'clock in the morning. We left the rail cards to borrd quietly a small British troop ship, the "H.M.S. Squalus." Again, under cover of darkness a tugboat towed us from the Hudson River estuary to the open sea. I slept soundly in my hammock, hanging in the hold, next to the stairway following Dad's earlier advice to be near a quick escape route and fresh air from the ocean.

The following morning, I went to the bridge and learned that we were part of a convoy of ships:  troop, merchant marine, and fighting vessels. Our planes filled the sky, searching for enemy submarines. Convoys move with the slowest vessel meaning a long crossing. September weather, hurricane time, in the North Atlantic, got worse as we sailed east. I enjoyed deep green waves break over our ship. The crests rose thirty feet or more enraged by the strong winds. I judged the wave height when the ship slipped into the bottom of a swell where I could compare the tops of waves to the ship's bridge. Better than a rollercoaster ride.

Nearly everyone became seasick from the boat rolling and the putrid odor. I didn't get sick maybe because of the fresh sea air falling down the open hatchway to my hammock. The days dragged, card playing or watching the flying fish and dolphins breaking through the ocean surface became our entertainment. Seabirds, a thousand miles from land, floating rhythmically on rolling waves amazed us. The fluorescent light generated at night by the ship's friction as it cut through the water worried us. The weak, flickering light around the hull at sea level was clearly visible from deck and, maybe, to the enemy.

The British Ship was an unexpected ordeal. The greatest torment was the food the Limeys served. The meals, puddings and slop, we called it, were nearly inedible. The worst was the lumpy outmeal, thick, sticky and tasteless. I lived the whole trip on marshmallow and Oreo cookies.

Once on board, I searched for toilets. I found a row of eight on a high structure, suspended above a foot wide slanted trough that carried flowing seawater from right to left. The toilets were seats on openings to the seawater in the sluice below, which carried waste to the ocean. First time, I chose the seat on the left side, a big mistake, because all the junk floated below me. Odors were bad, especially of vomit passing underneath from the seasick. I moved to the first position on the right side after that, so my waste sailed under the others.

One evening, I opened the hatch door to go on the deck to admire the fighting waves and the quiet stars moving across the sky. Suddenly, a British sailor yelled to me, "Get your arse off the deck and back inside." I obeyed immediately. The next morning, I saw that two large contraptions (some said fog machines) anchored to the second-deck stern were missing--washed out to sea by monstrous waves. I owe that British sailor for sure.

Far out to sea, air protection ended, but numerous warships--cruisers, torpedo boats and destroyers--circled the convoy guarding against the enemy. Near the end of the voyage, the Captain announced that our destination was the port of Cherbourg in Normandy, France.

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