Happily, I found out the next day that there was a ship’s newspaper and volunteered to write a column for it. They graciously accepted and, taking the title from Eleanor Roosevelt’s daily column called “My Day,” I called my column “My Floating Day.” Here’s a gander at what went on day and night on the troopship Sea Owl fighting the waves and the weather on its way across the North Atlantic to war:
My Floating Day
The shrill blast of a whistle tore me from my girlfriend’s arms and opened my eyes to another day on the ocean. I crawled out of my bunk and put on my shoes. I went to the latrine to wash. All they offered to wash with was salt water. Using salt water you can’t get enough lather to shave the hair on a flea’s leg.
I ate chow, but my breakfast was not a military secret for long. The gentle, exotic sway of the boat continued. Soon I made a spectacular dash to the latrine, where the menu underwent a full-field layout.
After a police detail I was unchained and allowed on deck with the others. I really enjoy being on deck. The air was fresh and once in a while a refreshing spray of salt water slapped you in the face like an insulted girl. It was real democracy; once I even talked to a Real First Sergeant. I felt so big I bowed only twice when I left him.
After lolling on deck we’re called to chow. They chuckled, punched our TS cards, and another meal trickled down to my yawning stomach.
In the evening, the ship changed from a troop transport to one of the largest gambling houses afloat. There were so many card games you had to be an athlete to get back to your bunk. The boys were really dice happy.
I was strong and brave for about eight days, but then I could no longer take sleeping down in the incredible stench that permeated the lower deck. The journey would normally take no more than five or six days by ship today, but not only were we weathering a stormy North Atlantic in late February, we were also zigzagging every few miles to avoid German U-boats. It also occurred to me that even though the sinkings of Allied ships were getting dramatically lower in early 1945, there was still the bad luck chance of a U-boat deciding to sink our troopship. So I decided to take my chances sleeping on the top deck. With twenty dollars, I bribed a merchant marine sailor to let me put my sleeping bag under a lifeboat, and he was nice enough to give me some all-weather tarps to cover me against the sea spray. It was rough up on deck, but so much better both smell-wise and torpedo-wise than sleeping down below.
Fortunately, I only had to do it for two nights, for on the third night, there it was, the rugged coast of France. Soon we were moored at the port of Le Havre. Even though we were finally on solid land, the earth still seemed to move under my feet with every step. I’m grateful to this day to the Salvation Army that met the troopships when they arrived in Europe and served donuts and hot coffee. Nothing ever tasted so good!
So even though I was sent overseas as a radio operator in the field artillery, once again the Army decided that I should be something else. This time it was a combat engineer. The Army moved men to various units as needed. I was transferred with some of my other shipmates to the 1104th Engineer Combat Battalion. We were put on long troop transport vehicles and sent to Normandy for combat engineer training. It was a long trip, made even longer by the fact that I was going crazy.
Every sign I saw was in French. Instead of a grocery store it was épicerie. Instead of a bakery it was boulangerie. Instead of a laundry it was blanchisserie. And the street signs were never streets, but always rues.
I said to my buddy, “If I don’t see something in English soon, I’m gonna blow my top!”
He said, “Well, get ready to blow your top because we’re in France, pal, and they have a habit of making all their signs in French.”
Small groups of men left the truck and were deposited at different villages. Eight men including me got off at a little farmhouse with a sign on the entrance that said MON REPOS. It occurred to me that Mon Repos was a rather grandiose name for maybe the summer home of a retired nobleman. “My repose” is very fancy indeed. But it turned out to be just a simple little country farmhouse with this grand name. It was in the village of Saint-Aubin-sur-Scie. The village was near a larger town called Offranville, not far from the fairly big and busy port of Dieppe on the English Channel.
Mon Repos in Normandy, where I was stationed in February 1945.
We were quartered in the main farmhouse, and the family that owned and occupied the farm was in a smaller house on the property. It wasn’t such a bad deal. They had cows so there was fresh milk and they provided most of the charcuterie for the village. Charcuterie is cured meats like sausage, salami, ham, etc. So like I said, the eats were good. We were not dependent on Army chow. The farmer and his family were very gracious. There was a little kid on a tricycle named Henri; he got to be my pal and kept looking for me. Maybe it was because I gave him chewing gum and chocolate. He’d shout my name, “Private Mel, Private Mel!”