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 THE ARK
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Continuation of story...
The ship was being tossed and battered in an honest to God typhoon. I stood out on the deck to watch the magnitude and power of the seas. I could actually see the ship bending amidships. The deck plates were continuously crying out in pain. A sailor reassured me that the ship was made to buckle amidships so that it wouldn’t snap in half. I felt like crying along with the plates. The ship tipped more then rolled because of its flat bottom, on a good tip you could look UP at the sea. The decks were constantly awash.
WHOOSH! The brig we made for our prisoners went bottom up and blew over the side, leaving the Japanese still on the deck. We ushered them below deck. Our intentions were to hang them not drown them. They must have had some fun in that shack while the ship pitched.
We were to be in the typhoon for several days. We were notified that the port on Guam was closed and to ride out the storm as best we could. I had been in rough weather before but nothing like this. The bow would ride high into the air and then come crashing down to bury itself in the sea. Prior to the storm a sailor had informed me that the doors were damaged and had been jury-rigged to stay closed. I prayed they would.
The huge seas controlled our course. The ship appeared helpless, as the helmsman’s metal was being tested, trying to keep the bow into waves in order to keep the ship from broaching. As we left Guam to our stern, the storm increased in velocity. It looked as if we were going to be blown as far south as Truk, in the Caroline Islands. Our brother Regiment, the 21st Marines who were stationed there might be in for a surprise.
I was scared stiff. I wished that I hadn’t heard about the doors or the Executive. I always hated a rough sea, but this was like being in a blender.
As you would expect our sailors in the hold were taking heavy casualties. A lot of the poor animals, including several horses had died early on. The dead horses had bloated. The ship reeked from the smell of the dead and the waste of those still alive. This pungent aroma and the ferocity of the storm called for an iron stomach.
We were out at sea far longer then we had expected and therefore had to ration our chow and fresh water, not that anybody had an appetite. Marines and Sailors alike would just lie in their sacks with their head in their helmets, The helmets were strapped to the edge of the sacks and at night, as the ship tipped, you would hear the splashing on the deck, as the helmets runneth over.
Some Marines volunteered to go into the hold and hoist out the dead horse carcasses through the main hatch. We all watched as the first horse, hog-tied went out of the hold. The horse was bloated to twice its normal size and swinging like a pendulum. Just as the carcass was about to clear the hold, it broke in half, deluging the working party below, with horse. The audience fell on the deck laughing. Due to a shortage of volunteers that work detail was canceled.
All day long the carcass of the horse followed in our wake. Was the mangled equine stalking us? It was positively eerie, was it horse or albatross? A blanket of gloom covered the ship.
I thought of the lines of Coleridge
And having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
The following morning our spirits rose as we finally escaped the storm and headed back to Guam, our pursuer had sank beneath the waves. As we entered the harbor we breathed a sigh of relief, but it was much too soon. The Executive was about to dock a ship for the first time. If there is any sort of cross wind, combined with the loss of headway, docking can be a very difficult task for any seaman.
As we bore in, the Marines on board were lining the rail checking out the ships in the harbor. We appeared to be closing on a beautiful yacht, the “Lonely Lady,” that was tied up to the pier. The sailors, pointing out its flag, told us it belonged to the Commodore of the Island. The yacht was J.P. Morgan class. It was a luxurious showpiece made of wood, its polished brass and varnished deck glistened in the sun.
The only person on deck was a young officer, waving to us in a friendly manner, a very cool character. This guy seemed real smug, he knew he had it made. He looked like Ensign Pulver from that play Mr. Roberts, a ninety-day wonder, in new, neatly pressed khaki. His demeanor quickly changed to panic as he realized we had lost headway and were being blown into his side. He started making signs with his hands as if to push us off. It was now obvious we were about to mash the Lonely Lady against the dock. The guy on the yacht deck had by now completely lost it. He was springing into the air, waving his arms and screaming foul language. We came along broadside and tucked the Lonely Lady into the side of the pier.
The Marines were howling with laughter as we watched the polished planks pop and spring into the air. We kissed her, un-puckered and impolitely continued on our way. We had done extensive damage. We never exchanged a word with the maniac; he was not making any sense. This poor guy was in deep trouble with the Commodore. (Officer of the Deck, what deck?) As we proceeded deeper into the harbor, the sailors were cursing the Executive, and the Marine laughter could not be contained.
We are now heading for a docking space between two other LSTs, who have their doors open on to the beach. Sitting ducks! There is about a thirty-yard space between them.
I figure by now every ship in the harbor had their glasses trained on us and we didn’t let them down. The docking operation looked to us as easy as parking a car. I’m sure it appeared that way to the Executive. As we approached the gap between the two ships, we slowed our forward motion and again we lost headway. The crosswind caught our bow, crashing us into the stern of the LST on our starboard side. As we back off, we proceed to cream the other ship on our port side with our stern.
We are on the verge of being wedged between them. Nobody has the heart to laugh anymore; by now the Marines are bonded to our ship and we are sharing our shipmate’s embarrassment. We can no longer even look.
Finally the three crews fight us free and we eventually dock between the ships. Our sailors want to take the ship back out to sea and go down with it. They all agree that it would not be wise to take shore leave. The other two crews are complaining about a horrible smell.
We no longer notice it; we have become the smell. Now comes the piece de resistance. When the ship is made snug to the beach, the Exec gives the order, “Open the bow doors.” Sure enough with all the eyes of Guam staring at us, out of the mouth of our ship comes one hell of a bad breath, followed by the survivors of the typhoon: sick chickens, thin pigs, smelly goats, wild dogs, and a bunch of lame horses. Looking into the hold one can see a bloated horse has commandeered the Col.’s Jeep.
Hojo had been quartered with us, and was in the pink.
I want to know how the heck the Executive got us through that typhoon. I never saw the man. He is now probably living out in Kansas, far from the briny deep.
Next day the headline of the Guam Daily read:
NOAH’S ARK LANDS ON GUAM
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