First Taste of War

June 11, 1943 was a day that still burns in my memory; mytwenty-first birthday, and I was aboard the cruiser Spelvin, flagshipfor Task Force 122, part of the Sixth Amphibious Force under thecommand of Admiral Alan G. Kirk. We were lumbering through roughseas, spray streaming from the bow blowing over my face as we headedfor a war zone in the Mediterranean. Hell of a way to spend a birthday,one of life's unpredictable tricks, especially when you're an enlisted manin the Navy and your country is at war.

Perhaps it might have been otherwise had I been drafted insteadof enlisting in the Naval Reserve. But I couldn't face the prospect oftrudging through muddy fields with a pack on my back, a rifle in myhands, searching out the enemy. I had never killed anything, if I couldhelp it. I wasn't "gung ho", had never fired a gun—except for a cappistol when I was a kid. My father gave me a cowboy outfit when I wasrecovering from a tonsil operation. It was complete with wide-brimmedhat, sunbelt and cap pistol. He knew how much I liked Western movies,fantasized being a cowboy. I suppose he thought the present wouldtake my mind off the pain of the operation. However, after I outgrewthat stage, I even gave up surf fishing in Atlantic City, my home town,because I couldn't stand the sight of a fish furiously wiggling to escape tofreedom, that freedom we prize so highly we go to war to maintain.

But after Pearl Harbor, I, like many others who were inclined tobe pacifists, had a change of heart. We had to get involved. There wasno choice. You have to pay for freedom, and the price can be high ...and perhaps even your life. These thoughts ran through my mind as Iwatched the sun breaking through an overcast sky, showering golden rayson our ship, loaded with fifteen hundred soldiers and sailors, zigzaggingacross the Atlantic, spearheading a line of cruisers and destroyers, trailedby oilers, amphibious supply ships, a sea-going tug, and a dozen or sotroopships.

We had left port five days ago. The roll of the ship was nauseating. Iwas still struggling to regain my sea legs, hadn't been on the ocean sinceI was sixteen when I first sailed my home built kayak off the shores ofAtlantic City.

How well I remember that small boat I built from my own plans,based on a photograph of one I would have liked to have bought, butdidn't have the money; the small allowance my father gave me wouldn'tstretch that far. But I had enough saved to buy wood for a 14-foot mast,stringers for the hull, rope for the rigging, canvas and paint. I usedwooden crates for cross members. I also made outriggers, one for eachside of the craft, and a rudder. Looking back, I can't believe I used simpletools: small handsaws, a drill, hammer, and screwdrivers. I must havebeen a good carpenter since the craft looked pretty decent when I finallyfinished it and was ready to give it the crucial test.

When my brother Peter and I took her out for a "shakedown cruise"I wondered if she would sink, or sail. My speculations and workmanshipmust have been right on target: she glided beautifully over low breakersas we hauled sail and headed out to ocean swells. She was lightweight,steady, zipped right along—and thank God, she wasn't leaking or fallingapart.

"What do you think, Peter?" He grinned and shouted back, "It'sgreat ... really great ..."

We decided to skirt waters just beyond the breakers, tacked backand forth, getting the feel of it. My first boat. It was like my firstpainting—only better. I didn't have to correct anything: my first, flawlessmasterpiece.

The next day Peter helped me tow the boat to the beach, and I wentout by myself. "I'll be back in an hour or so," I called as I got underway.

The surf was calm. A brisk wind was blowing seaward. I movedquickly over small breakers into blue-green swells. I was so preoccupiedwith how the boat handled that I didn't realize how fast I was going untilabout ten minutes later I was already about a mile or so from shore. Ilooked back, with apprehension. It seemed a matter of minutes untilI was farther out, could barely make out the shoreline. I must havebeen traveling faster than I thought because the shoreline disappearedaltogether. Giant whitecaps were forming—like those I could now seefrom the Spelvin. I felt like I was on a roller-coaster, losing control. Itbecame increasingly difficult to keep on an even course—though I didn'thave one mapped out. I was just gusting along with the wind and becameincreasingly apprehensive as I watched schools of fish beneath me, finsknifing the water—perhaps some were sharks. I became frightened ...what if ...

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a Coast Guard patrol boatappeared, siren screaming. It made a beeline toward me. A voice overthe loudspeaker bellowed, "You're too far out ... we're towing you in." Asailor threw me a line, which I tied to the bow: instant reprieve, what arelief! I was towed close to shore, nosed into a breaking wave and rode itall the way in.

The crazy things kids do, I thought. Little did I know how crazy youcould get—until later on, like right now, being on a war ship. But whenI was sixteen, it didn't seem so crazy; just an adventure, and I had beenspared from a watery grave.

Of course, I never told my father about that event ... not thatevening when we were having dinner, because I knew how angry hewould have been. He knew I was going to sail my boat in the ocean andpopped the question: "How did it go?" I lied, "Great ... it was lots offun."

Had I told him the truth, he would have most likely said, "I toldyou so ... just wasting your time ... almost got killed, didn't you? Youshould concentrate on your art, instead of such foolishness."

My father had always wanted to be an artist, ever since his youthfuldays when his uncle, a portrait painter in Italy, told him he had "agood eye," invited him to his studio to look at a new portrait nearingcompletion. I don't know if my father ever tried to paint. Perhaps hehad only "a good eye," but lacked talent. He became a musician, instead,studied violin and composition at Juilliard, then played professionallywith small orchestras, finally winding up in Atlantic City to direct ahotel orchestra for a leading beachfront hotel. But there's more to thatkayak story. Later, some of my father's friends told me how he bragged:"My son made a fine boat ... sailed it in the ocean."

Despite the kayak saga, my love for the sea didn't diminish. I spentmuch of my free time on the beach, swimming, sunning, girl watching,taking long walks, gazing at the ocean like a sailor awaiting his ship.

And now I had gotten my ship and a Second Class Petty Officerrating. But the romance of it was wearing thin. I was wondering whenthis hellish war would end. I desperately wanted to become a civilianagain and resume my art career, which I felt had been nipped in the budafter two years of study at Pratt Institute.

How well I recalled working on class assignments until well aftermidnight, when my roommates, Victor and Joe Canzani were snoringaway, thinking I must be nuts to devote so much time to my work—theycould do it so much quicker. However, I felt a commitment—perhapseven an obsession—to do my very best. But I did take breaks every sooften, went out with them for a beer and usually dinner, which we hadat an inexpensive restaurant close by.

I also played some basketball with Vic in the college gym; one daybroke the little finger of my left hand—my violin hand. I didn't play theviolin until some months later, when my finger healed. Since I never hadthe dexterity I once had, I finally stopped playing altogether.

Those Pratt days, though only a few years in the past, seemed likeanother lifetime. Hard to believe now, as I spent tedious days aboard shipengaged in the dull routine of working on maps of Sicily. The monotonywas broken by Sunday Mass, an occasional movie, systematic lifeboatdrills—or a submarine alert, like the one that happened later in the day.

I was shooting the bull with Gary, a short, shy kind of guy with therank of Army Corporal. We were both in the same map and model unit.He, too, had been an art student and wanted to get back to finish hisstudies. We always had a lot to bitch about, using those well-known fourletter words like old-time salty sailors. He was soft spoken, except whenhe got excited. Then his eyes would pop and he would come out withthe most unbelievable language, as he did when we heard the Spelvin'shorn blast an alert.

"Christ almighty," he bellowed. "Son-of-a-bitch! What the fuckhave we gotten ourselves into now?" The alert was followed by severalmuffled explosions. We raced from the fantail over to the starboard side;huge fountains of water were gushing skyward, like fire hydrants goneberserk—no doubt the result of depth charges a destroyer had dropped;another destroyer swung around close in front of us, dropped a fewmore, creating another series of muffled booms and gushing fountains.

The first thought I had was to look for a torpedo headed our way. Iscanned the heaving seas, yelled, "Don't see any tin fish, do you?"

In true form, Gary responded, "No! But you never know when thosegoddam things might hit us ... fuck'n German subs. I hope we blast theshit out of em."

We soon got the news that contact had been made about 500 yardsaway. Officers were scurrying to the signal bridge. Ships behind us wereflashing signals back and forth like a tennis match. The Spelvin made aswift 45-degree turn. Crews manned the 5-inch guns and scanned thewaters. Everyone was gawking and yakking away. I tried to stay calm,though I was flooded with fear. Then to bolster my courage, I lookedbehind us at the zigzagging convoy, thinking that with all the firepowerof our destroyers and cruisers, we would surely spot a sub and sink itbefore it could do any harm.

We also knew that our armada had the advantage of air power, whichmade it possible to get a bird's-eye view of any sub in the area. A cruiserbehind us launched two scout planes. Apparently they didn't find a subin the immediate vicinity, and after awhile one of them returned andcircled above us before heading for the stern of its mother ship, where itsettled unsteadily, churning water, reminding me of my kayak bobbingin relentless swells. Then as we watched it taxi toward the cruiser to behauled aboard, its engine conked out; it began to drift helplessly away.

Gary yelled, "Christ, what a time for engine failure ... poorbastard ... he's screwing things up." Sure enough, the plane was beingtossed like a chip of wood directly into the path of ships in the convoy.After another breathless moment—and series of flashing signals—adestroyer broke out of formation and steamed to the rescue. Soon bothdestroyer and plane were so far behind they were hardly visible.

A boatsman quipped, sarcastically: "That's all we need ... a brokenconvoy ... good hunting for subs ..." took a drag on his cigarette andtossed it over the side.

You could feel the tension in the air as the second plane returned. Iheld my breath as it sputtered toward the crane of the mother ship andmade contact. It was hoisted aboard without mishap. The cruiser thenheaded back in the direction of the destroyer and disabled plane, laterreturned with both plane and pilots safely aboard. Fortunately, I had asketchpad with me and made a few quick drawings of the event, hopingto develop them into a larger statement later on.

Although the convoy was in formation again, tension mounted aswe continued our zigzag course. It was too soon to relax. Officers on thesignal bridge were still scanning the waters. How could you know whenit might happen? How could you predict when a tinfish would strike?

But as the hours drifted by without any further commotion, wefelt relieved—that is, until around midnight, when the alert soundedagain. The lookout crew had spotted a distant light on the far horizon. Itcouldn't be anything on land; we were too far out. Yet any ship—ally orenemy—surely wouldn't want to give away its position by being lit up.What could it be way out there in the baffling darkness? Perhaps it wasan enemy ploy of some kind to divert our attention while a sub madequick work of us. I rubbed my eyes, pulled on fatigues and went on deckfor a look.

The word spread that a destroyer had been sent out to reconnoiter.After awhile the load speaker blasted the startling news that what wehad seen was indeed a ship, but not a war ship. It was a hospital ship,decks flooded with lights, illuminating her Red Cross markings. Shewasn't one of ours, but a British one, I believe. We were relieved, butas a precautionary measure, our destroyers soon enveloped the convoyin a dense smoke screen. Early next morning another destroyer trailingus barked a few shrill shrieks of its horn, alerting us to another possiblesubmarine attack. It dropped its depth charges and scouted around uslike a hound after a fox. The Spelvin made another emergency turn,but fortunately, all we felt were some vibrations, nothing more, andcontinued to plow steadily ahead.

* * *

We kept a steady course, covering several hundred sea miles aday, the water getting bluer as we gradually entered the Gulf Stream.A phosphorous glow lit the sea at night, making it a fit subject for anabstract painting. I toyed with the idea, wishing I were back in mystudio, experimenting with an exciting new approach—mounds of paintpiled high with texture, covered with blue-green iridescent colors, givingthe canvas a mysterious glow—the entire canvas an abstract, pulsatingportrait of the sea!

But I wasn't in my peaceful studio. I was heading for action that Iwanted to record with the demands of good academic drawing andrealistic colors, disciplines I had studied at Pratt: a real challenge forsomeone with no experience at depicting war subjects. Could I do it?Time would tell, I mumbled to myself as I studied the vast expanse ofsea.

Going back to the fantail after dinner when evening was setting in,I reflected on how beautiful the silvery wake looked against the darkblue sea, leaving a dim trail that vanished somewhere behind us in thedarkness, like the darkness you often experience in a wartime situation;you never know what is happening, not really. You simply get news of it,unless you are immediately involved, and it's happening to you—and thechilling thought that you might not even know what hit you when thelights go out.

Here we were in hostile waters, wondering how the rest of the warwas progressing.

We longed for information, but for security purposes, no one waspermitted to have a radio; we had to rely solely on daily broadcastsgiven to us over the ship's loudspeaker system. Can you imagine how welooked forward to every bit of news we could get?

Just think how elated we felt when a few days before we entered theMediterranean we received an uplifting message. "Now hear this. Theisland of Pantelleria has surrendered after eighteen days of horrendousbombardment." This was followed by the ironical statement, "Ithappened on the third anniversary of Italy's involvement in the war.The United States Bomber Command has increased its heavy bombersto 300.... R.A.F. fighter bombers are hitting Sicily and parts of themainland ..."

And then the next day, more cheers at the good news thatLampedusa, another small island eight miles from Pantelleria, hadsurrendered after twenty-four hours of naval and air bombardment.Our spirits soared again the following day when we heard that Linpsa,a neighboring island, had surrendered. "The way things are going,we'll soon win the war," I shouted to Gary, as we worked on shorelinedrawings to use in assault activities. We were to disseminate these tolanding craft when we reached our rendezvous off the coast of NorthAfrica.

The usual monotony continued until a strange thing happenedone day. All of a sudden the entire convey slowed down, a dangerousthing to do, since we would make better targets for enemy subs. I took abreak and went up to the deck. Everyone was watching a transport anda destroyer maneuver close to each other, maintaining the same slowspeed. The scuttlebutt spread that one of the crew on the destroyer wassuffering from an appendicitis attack. All eyes were glued to a man beinghauled by a Stokes Stretcher to the transport via a thin line; a lifeboatwas in readiness below in case of a mishap.

We were spellbound for about twenty minutes, watching thismaneuver take place. We knew that the ailing man would receive carefulmedical treatment—perhaps a much needed operation, and the Navyboasted some of the best doctors. The thought crossed my mind thatif we were in combat it might have been a different story. But saving aman's life at this time was a spectacular event.

Later, we heard that the man was a Ship's Cook Third Class—notan impressive rank for such impressive treatment. You've got to give theNavy credit. This single event did much to sustain the morale of manyenlisted men aboard ship.

Not much happened for a while, though we were constantlyapprehensive as we plowed along. We got used to the news that everyso often a destroyer would break away from the convoy to scout forsubmarines. Then one day we heard that an observation plane in searchof a suspected submarine had not returned. It was presumed lost. Severaldestroyers and another plane went out to search for it, but were notsuccessful. The plane was spotted ten days later; the pilots were alive andwell. Fortunately, they had enough food and water to last three moredays—had that been necessary.