The trucks filled the wharf in
double and triple lines from end to end. A gangway led up to the deck
of a ship alongside. We learned later that the vessel was the U.S. Grant,
a World War I troop transport.
Herded below deck, we jammed into compartments where the narrow
bunks were five high along aisles barely wide enough for passing. A
'Now, here this....' over the loudspeaker restricted all passengers to their
compartments, and to passageways only when necessary until we were
out of the harbor. We were to have our life preservers with us at all
times.
Hours later, the ship's vibration, a rolling about sensation in my center of
gravity, and creaking along the bulkheads, told me we were under way.
Scuttlebutt was that we were in a convoy escorted by destroyers. Enemy
submarines were suspected off the coast. Rumors abounded.
We took turns going on deck by compartment number. The convoy of
ten ships zigzagged frequently to minimize the success of an enemy air
or submarine attack. Finally, on the fifth or so day out from San
Francisco, land appeared on the horizon and, shortly afterward, we saw
Diamond Head.
Pages:
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258