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...