Seventy Years Ago: At Sea In The Eastern Pacific

A hundred miles west of the Farallon Islands, the troop ship's bow rose and fell as it met the swell generated by a storm thousands of miles across the Pacific.  The ship's sailors seemed not to notice.

Embarked soldiers, stomachs upset by days of railroad food, did their best to keep their food down. Not many succeeded during the rough passage across the bar when they left the Golden Gate.

It was even worse now, in poorly-ventilated troop compartments with bunks stacked four high. A steady stream of soldiers sought relief in what they had learned was the head, not the latrine. Many didn't make it in time. They would have liked to get a breath of fresh air, but there were too many troops and too little deck space.

The privileged few who made it to a topside railing learned the hard way not to barf into the wind. Sometimes they had no choice.

A boatswain's mate piped his whistle and said something unintelligible over the announcing system. Time for evening chow. The soldiers already knew, because they had been smelling the odor of greasy pork chops for more than an hour.

Few made it to the mess hall.

My stepfather, newly-promoted Master Sergeant Cox, was one of them. Not bothered in the slightest by the ship's motion, he ate his fill.

Then he stood his watch with the crew of a 4" gun.

Plenty of fresh air.