Chapter 32
Return from the Pacific 1943
“'Hey, boy,--this gonna be okay. She’s headed stateside and I hear the chow aboard them civilian-operated transports is better than Navy chow!'”
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| USAT SEA WITCH |
When
I reported to the Noumea Receiving Ship (which was not a ship at all but was a
barracks at the Noumea Naval Bass) on the afternoon of 11 February 1943, I
found to my surprise and delight that my old shipmate Oscar Hook was also there
awaiting transportation stateside. Since
we had been informed that it would be a day or two before we went aboard ship,
we promptly got into clean white uniforms and neckerchiefs and went on liberty,
the first I had been on in two months.
Wartime
Noumea still had little to offer in the way of amusement. We walked around town for a while the,
realizing that I had failed to bring along a fresh pack of Luckies, I went into
a corner store that appeared to sell such items.
There
was a beautiful little brunette behind the counter who spoke to us in
French.. I hauled out my little French
phrase book found the right page, and said uncertainly, “Bone jour,
mam’selle—dawn e mwa une package du cigareets, si’vous play?”
The
French girl giggled (it was really a melodious chuckle that set my red corpuscles
racing around) then my face turned beet red as she answered in flawless
English, “Sailor boy, are you by chance trying to ask me for a pack of
cigarettes?”
“Yes,
ma’am—that’s what I need!”
She
produced a pack of Gauloises and I inquired where she had learned English so
well. She explained that at the mission
school she attended it was required.
Oscar
and I hung around for a while talking to the girl and trying to get her to show
us the local sights when she got off work.
She politely declined and, during our persistence, managed to work into
the conversation that her father was warden of the French prison on Ile
Nou. She was expected to be home
promptly after she got off work and her papa was very strict. That did it—we ceased our efforts to date her
and, instead, got directions to a café where we could get a bite to eat. It was just down the street from the
pharmacy.
The
café again would not have been used for a set for a Hollywood south seas
movie. There was a curtain of strings of
colorful beads in the doorway apparently leading to the back rooms but the café
proper was quite plain and lacking in decorations. There were rattan chairs at a few bare wood
tables. The shelves behind the small bar
were devoid of liquor except for some bottles of Australian rum and a few of
red wine. The only other customers
present were two old Frenchmen at a table in the corner playing checkers.
The
wihte-aproned waiter apparently spoke no English—or, if he did, preferred
haughtily not to admit it. We struggled
with the little phrase book and finally learned that all they had to offer in
the way of food was some bread and cheese.
We settle for that and a bottle of red wine for our supper because when
we asked for something more the waiter shrugged, “C’est la guerre.”
Over
our modest repast (the French bread was delicious crusty golden brown and the
cheese was excellent), Hook and I compared notes of our recent experiences
while we consumed two bottles of the heavy red wine. I no longer recall where Oscar was being
transferred, but it was not to NATTC where I was headed. (I believe that Hook may have been a
radioman.)
At
one point the subject of our Waikiki escapade and escape from the Shore Patrol
came up. Hook laughed and, rubbing his
shoulder, said, “Man on man—I can still feel hitting that damned fence! I remember being in that garage in the alley,
but how the hell did we get back to Ford Island? I was always too embarrassed about passing
out on you to ask before VP-11 moved to Kaneohe. Also could never figure out where that little
whitehat with the name ‘Dolan’ in it came from.”
I
recounted what had happed from the time I left the garage until we got back to
Ford Island. Oscar laughed until tears
rolled down his round cheeks and poured us each some more of the red wine.
“Well,
old buddy—I sure owe you one for that!
We get to “Frisco, we are going out on the town—on me! I got plenty back pay in my kick and we’ll
spend some of it. Right now, let’s go
find that ‘Pink House’ and it will be my treat, too!”
We
were both feeling the effects of that red wine.
We drained the last of the second (or was it the third?) bottle and
unsteadily made our way down the street.
By the time we reached the Pin House, the night air and exercise had
sobered me considerably.
That
Noumea cathouse was no more attractive in the night than it had been when Troy
Anderson and I cased it in the daylight when we first came to New
Caledonia. We stumbled up the steps and
into the “parlor”. There was a tinny
piano being played in a corner and a few sailors and soldiers were having
drinks at a small bar. No women were
present at the moment. The place stank
of stale beer, stale smoke, cheap perfume, and other odors I could not
identify. The décor featured green plush
upholstered furniture and gold fringes on the lamps. A green and gold carpet that had seen far
better days covered the floor. At one
side of the dimly-lit room, was a wide staircase.
While
we waited at the bar to get attention, two of the Pink House women came to the
lower steps. They were dressed in “crib
clothes” of brief shorts and halters.
One was a tired-looking brunette Eurasian with a bony figure. The other was a slatternly appearing blonde
with stringy lank hair and sagging breasts.
The blonde called out in a hoarse voice, “Okay, boys—who’s next?”
No
one answered right away. Hook and I
looked at each other and simultaneously shook our heads. He said, “Don’t know about you, Frieze, but I
just decided I think I’ll wait and save it for ‘Frisco!”
“That
makes two of us!”
While
a sheepish-looking soldier and a very drunk sailor followed the two women up
the stairs we tossed down our drinks, made our way out into the clean night
air, and found a taxi to take us back to the Naval base.
The
next morning just after breakfast the base P.A. system carried an announcement
that all personnel in transit were to report with baggage in front of the duty
office. From there we were herded down
to the dock and boarded a whale boat.
The boat took us out into the harbor to an anchored ship that reminded
me at first glance of the old USS TIPPECANOE.
This
one was no tanker. The rust-streaked
black stern carried the name “USAT SEA WITCH”.
It was an old freighter about three hundred feet long that had been
converted into an Army transport and was operated by a merchant marine crew
under contract. As the boat came
alongside the boarding ladder I looked at the rusty old hull and muttered, “Oh,
boy.”
Hook
smiled complacently. “Hey, boy,--this
gonna be okay. She’s headed stateside
and I hear the chow aboard them civilian-operated transports is better than
Navy chow!”
