A FARM BOY’S PERSONAL REFLECTIONS OF THE
UNITED NATIONS RELIEF AND REHABILITATION (UNRRA)
CATTLEBOAT TRIPS TO EUROPE
SEPTEMBER 1946 - JANUARY 1947
BY GERALD LIEPERT
[Edited by Jamie Liepert Langston]
Where to begin?
I reached my 17th birthday on May 8, 1946 and graduated from Kewaskum High School
[i] a week later with something less than a stellar academic performance. Within days of graduation, I began work in the shipping department of the Kewaskum Utensil Company – although we were not allowed to work on the machines until age 18. Oh yes, starting pay was 60¢ per hour.
During this rather hectic late May and early June of 1946, I still belonged to the Youth Group of the Evangelical Reformed Church
[ii] of a three-church parish: Boltonville, Beechwood, and Silver Creek. One Sunday evening, several friends from Boltonville and I attended a Youth Meeting at the Silver Creek church. At that meeting, Reverend Meiller presented a request from the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Agency (UNRRA) seeking farm boys to handle livestock being shipped to war-torn Europe.
Apparently the program was established to replace livestock that had been killed or butchered during and as a result of the WWII. Hundreds of people in Europe were faced with starvation after the war. In fact, the winter of 1946-1947 was especially difficult, because it was extremely cold. The Rhine River actually froze over the first time in almost a century, and food and fuel were in very short supply. UNNRRA initially employed ordinary merchant seamen to care for the animals en route with disastrous results. We were told that more than half of each cargo load on those ships was lost because of a lack of knowledge in working with animals. Almost all cattle were two-year old heifers in calf and many of the horses were unbroken westerns with mares carrying foals. Sheep and goats were likewise carrying lambs and kids, although I only dealt with horses and cows.
Many churches and civic organizations were involved in finding, donating and buying animals for the program. UNNRRA approached the Church of the Brethren with a request for farm boys to care for the animals en route. I suspect that the Brethren contacted many religious denominations, especially in rural areas. Several at our youth meeting took the "request for more information" home, but as I recall, only two of us, Delmar Schroeder from Silver Creek and I, sent them in. A response came quickly with a letter of urgency.
By early July my paperwork was ready except for my parents signature, a requirement for anyone under 18. My mother was disposed to sign, but my father very negative. "He has never been away from the farm, he knows nothing about the world, he is too young, etc., etc., etc." One evening after chores, both parents were at the kitchen table. My Mom was reading a book and knitting, and Dad was reading the paper. I took the paper to Mom first. She signed and pushed it across the table to my Dad. He looked up from his paper with, "Do you really want to let him do this?”" My mother, in her own quiet way responded, "Let him learn how other people have to live." That comment is still as fresh in my mind, as if it were said yesterday. It also echoed many times later in life and influenced many future decisions.) Dad signed.
- 1 -
By late July 1946, I had received my first raise of 2-½ cents per hour at the utensil company. We still lived on the Liepert homestead, and I was expected to do the milking and help around the farm for my room and board. In early August, I received word of acceptance into the program and some of the details. We would care for a specific number of animals on the trip over – feed, water, etc. and then clean and disinfect the entire ship on the return voyage. The longshoremen in Europe would take animals, excess feed and even the manure off the ship. We would be paid $150 upon completion of each trip (regardless of how long the round trip was); and given free room and board aboard ship. We would also have access to the ship stores while on board. But our roundtrip travel from home to Newport News, Virginia and any expenses before assignment to a ship would be at our own expense. Within another week, I received a telegram to report to the Brethren Service Committee Office on Pier X in Newport News, VA by the end of August. By this time, Delmar Schroeder had decided not to accept assignment because he was still in high school, even though he had also been approved.
With my roundtrip train ticket from West Bend to Newport News and $25 in my pocket, my adventure began in late August 1946. Mom had packed a shoe box full of lunch (eating in the dining car was much too expensive), because I would be en route at least two days. My first transfer came in Chicago from Chicago & Northwestern to the Pennsylvania station. I had been told to “take the parmalee” by the station agent in West Bend, but I really didn’t know what that was and was too timid to ask. It turned out to be something like a stretch limo that traveled between the various train depots and was paid for by the railroads. (A taxi was an expense I couldn't afford.) The next train went from Chicago to Cincinnati where the station didn't change but I had to transfer to the Chesapeake and Ohio (Sleep like a kitten) Railroad. I arrived in Newport News in late afternoon on the second day of travel and took a taxi from the station in hopes of arriving at Pier X before closing. No such luck. I then asked the cab driver where I might stay and he took me to the Hotel Warwick, probably the only hotel in town at that time (I thought the taxi fare was exorbitant, but it probably was less than $1.50.) Tired and hungry, I paid $2 for a room and went to the dining room. I remember thinking that everything on the menu was too expensive, but by then it was dark, and I had no idea where I might find an affordable restaurant. (This was in all probability the first time I had ever eaten in a restaurant.) I did have something to eat, but it was obvious that my $25 was dwindling fast.
Early the next morning I checked out of the hotel and walked to Pier X (about 2 miles) with my bag, assuming that I would be assigned to a ship that day. Not so! I was presented with paperwork to take to the Coast Guard station in Norfolk, VA (via ferry) and have them issue my seaman’s papers. (I still have my card.) The Brethren Service Office called us "sea going cowboys," (something at least a bit romantic), but the Merchant Marine papers called us “cattlemen.” On the bus to the ferry, I met a young black man about my age, Charles Peeks from Ohio, who was also going to Norfolk for papers. This was my first experience around blacks and “blacks to the back of the bus.” I did not know that I was not supposed to be back there with him, and so I trudged right on after him. He very smoothly solved the problem by sitting in the most forward seat of the black section and had me sit in the rear most seat of the white section. He was obviously much wiser to the ways of the world than me.
Returning to Pier X that afternoon we were notified of a possible maritime strike to begin the next day -- September 1, 1946. We would, therefore, not be assigned, board, or load a ship until the strike was settled. We were sent to the Catholic Maritime Club where we could get a clean bunk, clean sheets and a shower for 50¢ per night. After bus and ferry fares and something to eat, my finances were already reaching a critical stage. The next morning we learned that the strike was in effect, but we were to report to the office every morning for instructions. We would also be paid and additional $2.50 per day for as long as the strike lasted. (Those who went home received nothing for their efforts.) I wrote home for money and my parents wired another $25, which I am sure was a burden they did not need. I stayed at the Catholic Maritime Club for another night or two and then teamed up with another cattleman from Iowa, Johnny Vogel. We rented a room for $7.00 per week ($3.50 each) in a private home and began looking for some kind of work. I lucked out almost immediately, working 14 hours per day (6AM-8PM) as a bus boy in a restaurant for $8 per week and my meals. I lasted only 1-½ weeks, when they learned that I would leave when the maritime strike ended, or so they said. If the truth were known, I probably ate too much and drank too much orange juice – a delicacy for me. For the rest of the month, we had coffee and doughnuts at the USO in the morning and Johnny found an "all you can eat for 75¢" home-style place for our second meal of the day. Of course we managed to report at least once each day to the office on Pier X. (A point of interest here: These were the days when every public restroom proclaimed that "KILROY WAS HERE.” There often were other epithets, but none exceeded “Kilroy.”)
Late in September, I was assigned to the Clarksville Victory Ship destined for Bremen, Germany. Before I could take my gear aboard and write that news to my mother, the Clarksville blew a boiler and would be out of service for several weeks. I just couldn't wait any longer for a ship, so when they offered a slot on the Pierre Victory going to Danzig (Gdansk, Poland), I took it. (I had about $15 and some change in my pocket, when I finally boarded that ship in early October 1946, and would not receive any pay until we returned to the USA in early November.) I did write a letter home before we sailed.
As I recall, we had a total load of 1170 horses. I worked a mid-ships hold on the day shift – 7AM to 9PM. (Only two people circulated through all of the holds and reported to the bridge hourly from 9PM to 7AM.) Horses had to be on their feet for the entire trip, although they seldom lie down for more than 20-30 minutes anyway. On board ship, however, the motion of the ocean will eventually kill them, if they are down for an extended period of time, because horses are incapable of vomiting. Thus, ill or not, horses that attempted to lie down had to be put into a sling and lifted with a block and tackle. This is something of a process, when horses on each side are spooked and wild. Horses were haltered and tied to their feed and water manger, but there were no individual stalls. I still carry a scar on my back from a horse that lifted me right off the deck. His teeth went right through my leather jacket.
The trip was pleasant enough, although the north Atlantic is quite cold in October. Occasionally, there were rough seas, but no heavy storms. I did buy an all-wool turtleneck seaman’s sweater for $3.50 in the ships store and a few cartons of cigarettes at 60¢ per carton. Although I smoked intermittently since my 16th birthday, most of these cigarettes would be used for trade in Danzig. (For several years after WWII, cigarettes were more sought after than money in war-torn Europe.) I still have some Polish zolotys received for my cigarettes.
My bunk aboard ship was in a "hooch" on the second deck that had been used by US Navy antiaircraft gun crews during the war. There were at least nine of us in a room no more than 10'x20', with no portholes! The food was reasonably good. We fed and watered the animals at least three times each day. Care had to be taken not to waste drinking water. Each horse had a pail attached to the front of the stall, and we never filled more than half to avoid spilling. We did have a veterinarian on board, but saw him only when we had difficulty with an animal. We were complimented on losing only three of the 1170 animals on the trip over – a record at that time, so we were told.
Arriving in the English Channel on a rather clear day, I recall seeing the famous White Cliffs of Dover and the masts of some ships sunk in shallow water during the war. The North Sea was uneventful. Then came the Kiel Canal (I think it’s called the Kaiser Wilhelm Canal) between the North Sea and Baltic. There we took on a German canal pilot and traversed the canal in daylight hours, because many of those areas were still mined. The canal was wide enough for two ocean going liners to meet, but the ship stayed to the center as much as possible. Children ran along both sides of the canal, and we soon were tossing goodies to them. With a good arm, one could sail the large flat oatmeal cookies made in the galley well onto the shore. We anchored at the end of the canal for the night. Apparently, the Baltic had many mines that had come loose from their moorings, and so we also traversed the Baltic only by day, arriving in Danzig at nightfall. A pilot took us into the harbor the next morning, and we awaited the longshoremen to unload our animals.
Once the unloading began, we were free to request passes into town. The Soviet Army occupied this area, and we were cautioned to avoid any kind of confrontation. Although we saw a few Soviet soldiers, there was no evidence of the "Iron Curtain" which was to fall over all of Europe. I had a pack of Walnettos, small individually wrapped caramel candies, in my pocket. As we disembarked from the ship, a crowd of children was already begging. I threw the Walnettos. Wrong move! We now had a dozen kids following us wherever we went. All begged for cigarettes, tobacco, or candy. Any cigarette butt tossed on the ground was immediately scavenged, tobacco removed and placed into a little tin to be used in a pipe. No, the kids didn't smoke themselves; they sold their hordes to someone who did. (Three cigarettes could buy a loaf of bread on the black market.) We sold some cigarettes for Zolatys
[iii] and stopped in some sort of bistro, where I had my first taste of vodka – potato-based liquor served in a small slender glass with lemon flavoring. It had very little taste but was absolutely powerful. By the time we returned to the ship on the first day, there was only one 12-year old boy still following the four of us. We agreed to meet him the next morning at 10AM, after he told us that for a pack of cigarettes he would take us to the battlefield where the Soviets drove the Germans out of the area late in WWII.
The boy was waiting for us, when we came down the gangplank at 945AM. After a few tram transfers, we finally rode to the end of the line and then walked a mile or two. Knowing what I know now, the situation was classic. The Soviets on the high ground to the east, the Germans on the high ground to the west, with low country, almost swamp a mile or more in width down the middle. Very little close-in fighting took place in the central city, which had already been damaged extensively by bombing and artillery fire. Our “tour” was limited to the German side after it had been overrun by the Soviets. Horse drawn caissons – some with skeletons and bits of rotten horsehide still in the traces, partial skeletons in bunkers, a skull inside a helmet, foot bones in rotting socks in foxholes, mortars with ammunition still stacked nearby, etc. etc. The carnage was obvious. Pretty heavy stuff for a 17-year old’s first time away from the farm. One from our group briefly strayed from the path and our 12-year old guide nearly had apoplexy, as only the paths had been cleared of anti-personnel mines. This battlefield trip is another of those experiences that has never been very far from my conscious thoughts.
Our final day in port was somewhat anti-climactic, although we did take a bus to the Polish city of Gydnia. After WWI, Poland was given a corridor to the Baltic Sea, so it could have seaport. Germany had the port of Danzig. Poland built their port of Gydnia just a short distance down the estuary. I do not recall a great amount of interaction with Polish adults on the excursion, but skinny children were everywhere in abundance, mostly begging, in our case from the wealthy Americans.
The return to Newport News went quickly. We did not begin cleaning until we hit the high seas. The ship was empty and the longshoremen had taken off almost every speck of hay, straw and manure. We spent about three days hosing every hold and topside with fire hoses and then disinfected every inch of where the next cargo would be loaded. Thereafter, we could sleep late, eat leisurely and dream about the big payroll we would receive on our return. They did pay off immediately after we disembarked. I received my $150 for the trip and another $75 strike maintenance pay. $225 cash -- no deductions! (I did not earn enough money to file income tax until about 1953.)
But I had started out with the hope of getting to Germany… According to the Brethren Service Office, the next scheduled trip to Germany would be the SS Zona Gale departing Newport News about November 15, 1946. It was now October 28th. Swift calculation of my funds made going back to Wisconsin for two weeks a viable option. Train fare would be less than the cost of hanging around Newport News. I signed on to the Zona Gale and grabbed a train for home. The Brethren Service Office asked me to recruit anyone interested, because many ships were sailing short-handed.
My stay at home was brief. I convinced Delmar Schroeder to come back with me, and Random Lake High School thought that the experience would more than make up for any missed school work. However, what we thought would be a trip of about four weeks, turned out to be almost seven!
Mom wrote to Germany to tell them that I would be on the Zona Gale scheduled to arrive in Bremen on December 2, 1946. It is important here to point out that the German postal system at this time was not yet functional, and all of our correspondence with the relatives in Schlangenbad went through American soldiers stationed there. During and for about six months after the war, there was a strict non-fraternization policy. Soldiers were not allowed to fraternize with the “enemy.” Of course, this policy was virtually impossible to enforce.
[iv] By November 1946, however, there were several GIs who received and mailed letters for our German relatives through the military postal system. I believe it was Sergeant George Manwaring from Pennsylvania that was the intermediate between the Dauers, Graupners and my mom about this time. In any event, my mother’s family had at least two weeks notice of my intent to be in Bremen. Mom was pleased, but we were not at all certain that I would actually get to see any of the relatives. Bremen was some distance from Schlangenbad, post-war transportation was difficult, and we expected to have only three or four days in port. I added some more cold weather clothing to my traveling wardrobe, and Delmar and I were off to Newport News.
When we arrived at Pier X on November 15th, the Zona Gale was just pulling into the loading dock. After a trip to Norfolk for his seaman’s papers, we also managed to get Delmar onto the Zone Gale crew. I think we were able to board the ship that night and thus avoid room and board costs for that day. The Zona Gale was an old WWI Liberty ship – slow and cumbersome.
[v] We had several hundred horses on board and a heavy load of cargo: grain, canned food, flour, canned goods, etc. – all for UNRRA related distribution. Our quarters were somewhat improved. The Zona Gale had been a troop ship during the war and the dispensary was on the lower deck mid-ships, where the “motion of the ocean” is minimized. Our bunks were in the dispensary, because we carried no medical personnel other than the veterinarian. Unfortunately, our showers on this ship were salt-water. After a shower one looked for a pail of fresh water to rinse the salt from your body! Itch? Oh yes.
Delmar and I had the hold in the fore deck and about 50 horses to tend. The ocean became a bit rough now and then and we were tossed about, but neither of us ever became seasick. Nor did we lose any animals, but there were several in slings before reaching our destination. There also were stalls on the top deck, closed on three sides, but open facing the hold covers upon which bales of hay were stacked and lashed down. It was not as warm on deck as in the holds, but the animals were out of the wind and spray and not really uncomfortable. Delmar and I worked the day shift from 7AM to 9PM.
The north Atlantic kept getting rougher. And then the ocean struck with a vengeance! It was early morning, perhaps 5AM. The night had been rough, but our bunks were in mid-ships and we had not even tied ourselves in. Apparently the ship had not yet recovered from a deep swell, when the next one hit the forward section of the ship. It washed about 70 horses, most of the baled hay stacked on the hold covers and many of the stalls into the sea. The two cattlemen on night duty were on deck making their way toward mid-ships when it hit. One was nearly washed overboard, saved only by being buried under several bales of hay. Both were very badly hurt – many broken bones, a broken jaw, a broken pelvis, bruises, internal bleeding, etc. The only medical person on board was the purser, who was qualified in first aid and a veterinarian. The storm increased and the Zona Gale was turned into the storm to ride it out. Fortunately, there was a US Navy hospital ship in the area with doctors on board, but the storm was so intense that it was impossible to even consider setting up a breeches buoy for our casualties. The hospital ship was close enough that we could occasionally see its stack through the wind and rain. Even so, the radiotelephone link tended to waver with the storm. I volunteered to stay with one of the casualties, Frank Kern from New York. The doctors on the hospital ship advised the veterinarian on procedures, and the vet taught us. Frank had a broken pelvis and could only urinate with help of a catheter. I learned how to catheterize him, how to inject painkillers (I assume it was morphine), and how to feed a patient with a broken jaw! I suspect that most of our instruments and supplies came from the veterinarian's stocks. In retrospect, one probably does many things at age 17 that one wouldn’t consider doing 50 years later, but necessity is surely a great teacher.
The storm was in full fury for two days and finally abated. A few cattlemen managed to get into the holds to feed and water, but most stayed in mid-ship until it was over. Meals were cold sandwiches carried in our pockets. The animals remaining on deck went without feed or water for at least two days, because of the storm risk. Most of them however, did survive. A decision was made to put into Plymouth, England, where our casualties would have far better facilities for recovery than even the hospital ship could offer. This of course put our arrival in Bremen at December 5th instead of the 1st or 2nd. Both casualties were on the night shift. Delmar and I volunteered to replace them, since they only worked from 9PM to 7AM. There also were fewer horses to be tended than on the day shift, because of those swept overboard. The night shift was required to make a complete round of the ship each hour and then one of us had to report to the bridge every hour on the hour. We took turns doing this.
We arrived in Bremerhaven at night, perhaps 11PM. I watched the German river pilot come up to “Jacobs ladder” and then took him to the Captain’s stateroom next to the bridge. We were soon underway down the river into Bremen. The next hour was my turn to report to the bridge. The Second Mate was on duty, and after my report he said, “Do you know if there is a cattleman named Lippert or Leippert on board?” My response was “I think you are talking about me, Sir!” He looked at my card, and told me, “Go over and see the Kraut, he’s got a message for you.” He pointed to the German pilot. A moment of anxiety about how do I report to a “Kraut” was unnecessary, because he had been watching the Second Mate. He handed me an envelope. The message was short, and I can almost quote it exactly: (In fact, I think I still have it somewhere.)
“We are here in Bremen expecting you. Contact Lykes Brothers Steamship Agency to find out how you can reach us.”
It was signed by Tante Else, but I had no idea who “we” were, but assumed it was Onkel August. Of course, I was excited and I ran down the ladder to share it with Delmar. We still had our shift to work until 7AM, but now I knew that contact had been made and someone had come to see me. And of course I had never met any of my German relatives, nor had anyone from the states been there since 1933 when Uncle Carl had been back for a visit. As morning came, I shared my excitement with one of the regular seamen, who had been in Bremen several times before. He knew that the Lykes Brothers Steamship Agency was just a “few blocks down the quay” and you did not need a pass, because you didn’t leave the docks to get there. I went off duty at 7AM, exactly the time we docked, and Delmar and I set out to find Lykes Brothers. It was not far and we found it easily, but the office did not open until 9AM. We went back to the ship intending to eat breakfast and then return.
As we entered the mess, the cook looked at me and said, "Hey, where have you been? The Purser is looking all over for you.”
[vi] I immediately went to his office. There was another gentleman there, when I came in. When the Purser recognized me, the gentleman doffed his Hamburg hat, clicked his heels and said, "Kassel.” He then continued: "I have a Frau Dauer and a Fraulein Graupner waiting at my home to see you.” The "we" in the original message was now identified. (I learned later that Opa had wanted to come but felt he was too old to make the trip. He died in 1949. Onkel August would have come, but was recovering from a severe cold and did not wish to risk pneumonia.)
The Purser handed me a pad of blank passes and told me to type mine. I also requested one for Delmar, which was granted and both were immediately signed. Herr Kassel was offered a cup of coffee, while Delmar and I changed from our work clothes. I do not recall eating breakfast. I do know that the longshoremen were already coming aboard as Herr Kassel, Delmar and I left the ship. The weather was cold, well below freezing. My wool sweater, leather jacket and fur-lined gloves were indeed welcome. We left the dock area via a US Army checkpoint, walked a few blocks to a tram stop. The tram took us several blocks to what must have been a rather upscale housing area.
[vii] There was considerable damage to almost all buildings, possibly because they were located so close to the docks which still were more than 50% destroyed. I do remember the holes from strafing in the stucco of many buildings. The Kassel's home was in an apartment complex. Obviously a nice home of several rooms, but just as obviously had not had much recent paint or maintenance. It was perhaps ½ block from the tram stop. We probably arrived there about 9:30AM.
We entered the house and were greeted by Frau Kassel. She ushered us into a room that might have been a sitting room, but also had Herr Kassel's desk and telephone -- one of those old stand jobs that you held the mouthpiece stand in your hand and the receiver to your ear. My German was certainly not proficient enough to understand everything going on around me, but apparently Tante Hanni and Tante Elsa had regularly called Kassel's to find out if the Zona Gale had yet arrived. Until that morning it had not, however, Herr Kassel had left early to check, and not only were we in, but were now at his home. A phone call or two reached them and one could hear and sense their excitement over the phone. It would take 20 minutes or so for them to arrive. There was very little heat in the house and our wool sweaters were indeed necessary.
We remained in the sitting room as Herr Kassel made small talk and translated for his wife. They told us that they had two children, but they were "in the country" with relatives. My emotions were rather neutral until the doorbell rang and a meeting with my mother's sisters was imminent. Both Delmar and I stood when they entered the sitting room, and I think it was Tante Hanni that went to Delmar first. I'm not really sure what we talked about, but I know that there was a lot of looking into faces and eyes. Both took my face in their hands. It was almost a relief when noon approached and Delmar and I left to go back to the ship for the noon meal. We certainly were not going to impose on their meager rations.
[viii] We agreed to meet them again at Herr Kassel’s that afternoon. They asked that I seek permission to return to Schlangenbad with them. (One embarrassing incident from that first meeting that I learned about years later. When I sat back on the sofa in the Kassel's sitting room, I leaned my head back against the wall. Those were the days of Vitalis and Brilliantine. Apparently, my greasy hair stained the wallpaper. No one said a word about it to me at the time.)
A brief visit with the Purser at noon garnered the Captain's agreement that I could go for no more than one week. (He himself was off to some other country for a week.) However, such permission was contingent upon permission from the US Army. That afternoon we met at Kassel’s then went to the US Army headquarters to seek travel permission for me. We were pushed off to several officials and at one point almost had an affirmative answer. The main stumbling block was a lack of a passport or military ID card. My seaman's papers were issued by the US Coast Guard, which at that time belonged to the Treasury Department and not the War/Defense Department. The trip to Schlangenbad would have taken me through the British and French zones into the American zone. Had it been only the American zone, I think I would have been allowed. In the end, however, permission was denied. While disappointed, at the same time I was relieved, because I was anxious about the return trip from Schlangenbad to Bremen alone. I went back to the ship and agreed to meet at Herr Kassel’s again the following morning. On the way back, I sold a couple packs of cigarettes to a character who quite literally "lifted" them from me for a whole handful of Reichsmarks. I had no idea what Reichmarks were really worth. No one could buy much with them anyway.
After chow the next morning, Delmar and I energized the galley crew, who gladly packaged most of the edible leftovers. We also had cigarettes in our socks and every pocket. I am sure that Kassel's were aware that they might receive some of the largess by opening their home to us. Even so, we were grateful, and they easily became our way station. . In retrospect, I think that Tante Elsa and Tante Hanni initially stayed in a hotel of very limited accommodations, but after we arrived I believe they stayed at Kassel’s for three or four days, until they went home.
The second day, Tante Hanni and Tante Elsa took us on a sightseeing tour in the city of Bremen. I have often remarked that I do not recall seeing one building entirely intact. We did visit the cathedral and catacombs. I doubt if I understood much of what I was seeing. It must be remembered that I was still a skinny, immature, mostly scared kid with no cosmopolitan outlook whatsoever. Besides, sightseeing is not really exciting when it is cold, both indoors and out! We did notice the GI coffee shop near the cathedral, run for and by the US Army. We learned that our seaman's papers would get us in. Bringing German Nationals in however, was strictly forbidden. They might have better let Tante Elsa and Hanni in when we asked. Delmar and I parked them around the corner in some doorway and went back. We stuffed ourselves and took out as many doughnuts and paper cups of coffees we could get into my pockets and the huge pockets of Delmar's field jacket. We left them in early afternoon and agreed to meet at Kassel’s after we had the evening meal aboard ship.
That night we had steak for dinner. There were many left over steaks, mostly with a lot of fat and gristle. We wrapped a bunch in wax paper and carried them back to the Kassel’s. The steaks were received with so many “ooh’s” and “ahhs” that we were embarrassed to think our leftovers could mean so much. We arrived at Kassel’s while they were still eating. It amazed me to see SPAM (a canned meat) on the table. (Aboard ship we often had SPAM and eggs for breakfast, SPAM and cabbage for a noon meal and even cold SPAM left out for midnight snack. Tante Elsa urged me to "try some, it’s really good." Not on your 1ife, I hated the stuff. But I did learn that it had been part of a food package sent to them by my mom.
I also believe that it was this same afternoon that we came back to the ship and observed an interesting exercise in the ingenuity of some longshoremen. There was considerable cargo in foodstuffs and, in this case, there was a torn bag of flour. Please remember that money itself could not buy food, and rations were very short for the Germans. Three German longshoremen were filling their trouser legs with flour. Apparently they had tubes sewn into the inside of their trousers and could manage to supplement their families diet in this devious and most ingenious manner.
I'm quite certain that the following day was Sunday and both Delmar and I went to a cathedral service with Tante Elsa and Hanni. They planned to return to Schlangenbad the next day. When we left the church, there was a box for an offering. I still had a fistful of Reichmarks in my pocket. They were useless to me, so I contributed. Tante Elsa and Hanni made sure that I regarded it only as play money anyway. That day we also managed to get a phone call through to Onkel August, so I did get to speak to him briefly on the phone. That afternoon, Delmar and I pulled out all the stops in bringing as much largess off the ship as we could. There were nine raw eggs in Delmar's field jacket pocket, a number 10 can of pineapple, and other assorted goodies contributed by the galley crew. We had already given up most of our warm clothes, keeping only our work clothes and something for the train ride home. How did we get all this stuff off the ship? On an earlier day, the Army gate guard was very cold and I gave him my good set of fur-lined gloves. After that we were never checked. My wool turtleneck sweater went back to Schlangenbad and was still being worn by my cousin Erika when I came back to Germany in 1952 with the US Army. Delmar gave up his reindeer sweater and whatever else could be spared. We also gave them several cartons of cigarettes and cigars (as well as some to Herr Kassel) because they were worth far more than money. I should also mention that both women wore slacks, somewhat out of fashion for the times but certainly necessary for the cold weather. They indicated that they were made from dyed US Army blankets.
We met Tante Else and Hanni once more on Monday and had “lunch” of spinach soup
[ix] at what must have once been a very nice restaurant. It was my impression that the waiter had helped them when they arrived in Bremen, but at that time I really didn’t understand how. We then accompanied them to the train station. I recall being very uncertain of how to say goodbye and how to extend greetings to people in Schlangenbad who were so close to me and yet virtually unknown. There was also a concern about how I was going to describe all this to my mother. It was again almost a relief when they kissed me goodbye (somewhat to my embarrassment) and we finally parted. We returned to the ship. I may have gone ashore once more with Delmar and some of the other crew, but most of the time I ate, slept and read until we sailed. I think we did take something to Herr Kassel’s as a thank you before we departed.
We sailed sometime in mid-week and were immediately urged to clean and disinfect that part of the ship that had had livestock as cargo. After only two days, we were told that we were putting in to Middlbsborough, England (near Scotland) to take on a load of pig iron for ballast. The unloaded ship was running high out of the water and the North Atlantic was quite rough at this time of year. We were in port at least three days while being loaded. We did see a stage show that featured a black singer, whom I misidentified for years as Ella Fitzgerald. Not long ago, however, I found the theater program from that night that identifies the “Crooning Blackbird – star of stage and radio” as one Adelaide Hall. Quite amazing to us was the option of smoking in the theater during both the movie and stage show. We did get a shot of British fog coming out of the theater that night; it was nearly impossible to see from one streetlight to the next. We stopped in a pub and were fascinated by the manner in which beer was literally “hand-pumped" from kegs. Rather bitter stuff. The toilet? Well, you stepped into the shadows between the buildings and used a trough that emptied into the gutter!
From Middlesborough, the trip became longer because a decision was made to use the “southern route” which skirted the Azores and West Indies. On Christmas Day, we lay on the deck watching the flying fish in the ships wake. This time, we landed in the port of Baltimore on December 30th, 1946. Good old Brethren Service Committee was on hand with our pay, and we hopped a train to D.C. We had several hours before our train left for Cincinnati but not enough time to really see anything. Of course, the weather was cold there, too. I recall arriving in Cincinnati on New Year's eve and leaving sometime that night for Chicago. We ultimately arrived in West Bend on New Year's Day. No one knew for sure when we would arrive, and when I called my parents no one answered. (I think they had gone to church.) Delmar's parents picked us up and dropped me off just before my mom, dad, and brothers returned. That night I described an almost blow by blow account of meeting Tante Elsa and Tante Hanni. Perhaps I would have liked to go again, but now it was time to go back to work at the utensil company and return to my place in the family.
[i] Kewaskum, Wisconsin
[ii] Now the UCC
[iii] Polish currency
[iv] In fact, General Patton even labeled the non-fraternization policy “dumb.”
[v] A WWII Victory ship could cross the Atlantic in about 10 days; a Liberty ship took half again as long!
[vi] The Purser handles most of the administrative business aboard ship, and I had done some typing for him while off-duty. I assumed that he wanted typing help or something.
[vii] River pilots are indeed well paid specialists.
[viii] At that time, their rations included ¼ lb. of butter, ¼ lb. of sugar, ¼ lb. of bread and some fat [when available] per person per week. In fact, Tante Elsa and Hanni brought most of what they had to eat in a basket from Schlangenbad, because no one knew if their ration cards would be good in Bremen.
[ix] Spinach soup was the only item available on the menu without rations.
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Darcy Kleeman Boock provided this German-language obituary for Christian Friederich Boock, who died on 9 December 1888. It is from the NEW ULM POST, Freitag, den. 16. Dezember. 1888, Page 8, Col. 3. I copied it several years ago at the Minnesota History Center in St. Paul. C. F. Boock died on 9 December 1888 in New Ulm, being 62 years of age. The obituary states that his marriage to Marie Albrecht produced three children: Mary (Mrs. August Friederich Raabe), George (m. Schriefer, who died in 1943 in California), and Gustav. However, a fourth child, Fred, who was their third child (between George and Gustav), who died when he was 14 [The Settler, 1982, p. 10).
