Summer 1946
by Don Zook

ifty years ago during the winter of 1946, I was a high school student at Hesston, Kansas, USA. My parental home was one hundred miles west on a small farm in the Zook Community, Pawnee County, south of Larned, Kansas. My first ten years of matriculation were at the local, consolidated rural school. A year previous I had pledged a special, personal, life commitment to Christ and His Church, prompting my parents to invite me to study at their almamater and meeting place, Hesston College, a Mennonite Church related institution of ninth grade through two years college. Eventually I attended four years there, eleventh grade through "sophomore" college. I was in my first year there as a "boarding student" at Kauffinan Hall.

Two classmates, Bob Kauffman, son of Mrs. Mabel Kauffman, my housemother, and Delbert Erb, among other friends, spoke of a unique summer opportunity sponsored by the Mennonite Central Committee and Brethren Service Committee to ship United Nations Relief to war-torn European countries, probably cattle or horses. It sounded great; I could handle that!

Upon reporting this fantastic possibility to my parents one weekend that I hitch-hiked home, my parents seemed to favor the notion. Every couple months when I would go home, my "folks" would usually transport me by way of their car, returning me to the Hesston campus after Sunday morning worship at our local United Methodist Church. I had informed them of Dr. Melvin Gingerich, Bethel College professor, as the coordinator for this fantastic venture. They were aware of him. This particular Sunday afternoon we went directly to his home in North Newton, eight miles from Hesston, to visit and enter my name on the waiting list from which there were eventually to be thirty-two young men received for this tour of duty.

From fifty years' perspective I wonder, "How in the world did my parents allow that sixteen year old kid to do such a thing?" My response is rather simple and direct from my father who, one year later, did something very similar. The United Nations, of which our United States provided a major portion of support, turned to the private sector for much of the hands-on distribution of relief. Through the Mennonite Central Committee my father, Abner, in 1947 volunteered on a crew of farmer/mechanics to be trained in the International Harvester Company factory in Charleston, South Carolina. The team then accompanied a ship load of tractors to Poland where he worked on a 'collective farm' for six months. My opportunity may have symbolized for him a "ministry' that would serve his desire to participate in world reconstruction and human reconciliation following the catastrophic World War II.

In June 1946, when I would usually be helping prepare for wheat harvest on our farm and otherwise working in the fields, my parents purchased my train ticket to New Windsor, Maryland, the location of the Brethren Service Center. There I was to meet Dr. Gingerich and son, Owen, and continue our rail travel to Baltimore and over-night ferry on Chesapeake Bay to Newport News, Virginia. Our ship's exact disembarking time was yet unknown, prompting a six-day anxiety period. During those waiting days we endured the bunk beds and sterile quarters of the Catholic Maritime Service Club and seemingly interminable days waiting,

Our biding the time in Newport News was rather a waste; certainly valueless. Each day we would express hope for any certain word regarding definite plans. When no development was forthcoming, we would think up something creative. John Hess was one of our more mature men who was a student representative of Goshen College, Goshen, Indiana, a sister Mennonite college to Hesston and Bethel in Kansas. Most of our crew was recruited from these three sources. One day I joined six or eight of my mates in John's car to swim at Virginia Beach, just down the Atlantic Coast a few miles. Another day we ventured to a Mennonite family-owned dairy near Oyster Point, no longer on any map that I find.

Finally, we were informed that we would be meeting our ship at the old docks of Newport News to accompany horses destined for Danzig (German spelling), Poland. Most of the day was occupied with getting ourselves and our luggage from down town to the shipping location and waiting hours, watching for this monstrous vessel to slowly maneuver its way to the ancient pier. I recall in amazement, as it steamed its way closer to where I stood; it was the largest moveable object that I had ever approached, and it was to be our home for the next month.

Our Liberty ship was the S.S. (Steam Ship) STEPHEN R. MALLORY, of special construction and distinguished by twin booms and large hatches to accommodate tanks, trucks and other heavy duty military equipment. Super contractor Henry J. Kaiser of subsequent Kaiser Aluminum fame, reportedly acquired a reputation - famously or infamously - during World War II with government contracts, erecting these units on near assembly line proportions. Ours was named after a member a family of long-time United States Navy esteem. It had been removed from "moth-balls" (storage) and was converted for this specific use. One report suggests that these ships were made for only one voyage but this ship, as many of them, had made numerous wartime voyages, and was now expected to continue its service in an entirely dfferent capacity. Ours was its first voyage for this humanitarian purpose.

The Mallory's four major cargo holds were converted into horse stalls with heavy, rough cut, wooden timbers bolted or nailed together in long rows. There were two holds at the front part of the ship with decks redesigned for horses; the first hold was two decks or stories deep with horse stalls and number two hold was three decks deep. The center portion of the ship or "midship" was entirely occupied with the ship's engine below deck and the ship's crew and navigational equipment above deck. Back of midship was the third hold with two decks full of horses. I was assigned to the lower deck of this third hold. There were several stanchions on top deck filled with bailed prairie hay as horse feed. Then there was one more deck in the stem exclusively arranged as quarters for us "sea going cowboys."

The horses were transferred from dock to deck one at a time, in large wooden crates hoisted by the ship's cranes with cables attached to steam powered winches. Similarly they were unloaded three weeks later. This procedure that lasted most of the night, seemed absolutely chaotic to me as I had never before been aboard any floating object larger than a row boat. It was a totally different environment than I had ever experienced. We had been instructed very vaguely, that we were to feed and water the equestrian herd after our respective holds had been completely filled, which process took some of our men very late into the night. Only then were we allowed to our meager quarters.

One of the best factors of my ship life happened to me that evening. I was paired with Edgar Metzler from Scottsdale, Pennsylvania, to work in the second (bottom) deck of the third hold. His father, A. J. Metzler, was long-time administrator of the Mennonite Publishing House. He was, I think, born and reared there. We were similar in age and size. He had graduated from high school. We had never seen each other before or since, until May 1995, when Natalie and I traveled home to Kansas from London by way of Asia. Edgar and I "caught up" with each other in recent years and I wanted to visit him in his 'bailiwick' at Kathmandu, Nepal, as director of the United Mission to Nepal.

We left Newport News port during the night and we busily and swiftly learned about our horses, our mates, and our entire ship with its crew within the next few days. The third day we also learned that our ship had developed mechanical trouble and turned back to Boston harbor for repairs, but more about that later.

Our precious cargo was entirely composed of brood mares from numerous rural parts of the United States. They were each intended to drop their foal after arrival at their farm destination. If I had considered this new situation as temporarily confusing, I am confident these dear animals must have undergone shock waves of utter trauma. Their radically different change of circumstances from pastoral solitude or working farm fields and quiet nights, to a long, rough rail car ride across several states to a seaside dock, flashing lights, inconsistent feeding, strange partners, plunged into stultifying darkness, constant rocking motion, ear splitting noises, constant manure build-up behind and forcing them to stand on their front legs, haltered into one position, no exercise; it could have driven any domestic animal insane.

The stanchions installed in decks of the holds were constructed of heavy timbers to accommodate one to four or five mares, the fewer the better in each stall for less annoyance and greater privacy. The very few single animals were fortunate; less disturbance, more security. There were two or three long aisles on each deck, on either side of which were rows of stanchions. The horses heads were facing into these narrow aisles along which we attendants would walk, carrying our pitch forks of hay and garden hoses to supply water. Each animal was to have two buckets or pails: one for water, one for grain. Each bucket, with its bail, had a small strap-iron hook to hold the pail in place over a large wooden, horizontal plank about eight to twelve feet long. Each horse had a rope halter with a line tied to the same plank as the buckets were hung.

In their extreme nervousness some of the animals expressed their anxiety in kicking their neighbor or, more dangerously, biting us who attended them. A tap to the muzzle of an errant horse usually taught it to stand back from the aisle manger. There were drastic exceptions. Emanating from these environmentally hazardous conditions developed some of our most exciting early stories. Each of our crew had wildly unique tales to share. "The first liar never had a chance!" All stories of course, were true. None seemed believable until we would each experience and describe our own circumstance. All stories could be embellished and all were utterly, fantastically verbalized. If anyone would disbelieve another's description, he would set himself up for vulnerability and have some new or wildly different epic to share the next day.

Many of our mates were bitten as the animals would nip us on the arm, shoulder or back. Walter Oswald, our Associate Sponsor with Melvin Gingerich, and history professor at Hesston College, a near 200 pounder, was literally picked up by one horse's teeth by his overall suspenders and slung several feet down the aisle. Lawrence Hurst was bitten in the neck causing a severe puss pocket to develop with an extreme rash prompting the need for the veterinarian to lance it. Others had teeth marks to prove they had been victims. Both Edgar and I were fortunate, no injuries. Also, I very gratefully report, neither of us were ever smitten with seasickness.

The frequent episodes of flight for the horses caused them to jerk their heads and necks in ways that caused harness burns and severe sores. The two veterinarians aboard for the purpose of animal me recommended that we completely dismantle the rope harnesses and reform them into single lines around the necks, then tie the line to the plank. That did actually give relief to the problem and allow greater latitude for the mare to move, bite, swing head, kick, etc.

The harnesses were assembled with rings of #9 wire each about two inches in circumference. To disassemble the harness we would simply twist the rings slightly to release the rope. I conceived the notion of utilizing the rings to make a chain. Each ring would represent a half day that we spent with the horses. The first single ring symbolized our first aftemoon/night aboard ship. The last single ring indicated our last morning of responsibility. Between those singles, I assembled 13 pairs of rings, a total of 28 rings, approximately two weeks traveling across the Atlantic from Virginia to Poland. I wish I knew where that chain is now.

The temperature and humidity in our ship's holds were very high. This farm boy was familiar with equine excrement. My native environment, however, allowed miles and miles of West Kansas breezes to clean the atmosphere. On the top deck of our boat, sea breezes were blowing, making the atmosphere quite pleasant. Below deck and lower levels, nothing but sour, rancid air pervaded every corner in which our mares were constantly confined. We would usually stay with our respective charges from light to dark of day but, during the heat when not working up and down the aisles, we would sit on bales of hay at the open holds with skies above.

My teammate, Edgar, was certainly a great guy to work with and share responsibilities. I doubt that animal husbandry was his first love, nor mine, but together we adapted to our necessities very quickly. I soon learned that he was very intelligent and I soon learned to respect his smarts. There was a recent issue of Readers Digest that appeared in our hold that was devoured by most of us. Having enjoyed several of the articles in the bits of leisure while setting on the bales, I shared them with him, only to realize that he had already read them. Later I quizzed him about other articles, only to learn that he possessed a photographic memory and could detail nearly every article in the entire issue.

After several days enduring the heat and stench, there appeared a nearly unbelievable innovation. No, not mechanical circulation; our tub was built before such inventions. The ship's crew brought out large canvas air chutes. The upper portion of the canvas was hang glider in shape and size, roped up to the ship's rigging above deck in the wind, and attached to six foot circumference tubes of the same canvas material, funneling the fresh air down into the hold below. Life savers! We were very grateful for the slight relief.

Boston was a bad dream for us. Nearly two hundred years earlier, British shipping also had a nightmare in Boston when our patriotic and rebellious forefathers performed an historic "Tea Party." Ours was hardly a party by any stretch of the imagination. Ours was a function with horses so ill they began to die. Like our forefathers, we dumped our cargo overboard. Yes, into the harbor! No, not into the water, but on to a barge that our captain ordered out from the harbor patrol. The bodies lay dead in our holds for a short while but when they were brought to the top deck they evidently got the attention of the captain. It was bad having the aroma next to us on the barge in the heat but within a few days we left and the barge, too, I suppose. Our responsibilities continued with the horses in Boston Harbor even with the ship's immobility while receiving repairs. One evening's exception allowed us a six hour shore leave. Historic Boston with its national / international reputation prompted some of us to visit the tourist landmarks. I elected to go with several fiiends to my first view of major league baseball. The Boston Braves happened to be in town that very night. Exciting!

Upon leaving Boston, we were leaving the U.S. for the second time. We soon learned to work ourselves into a kind of labor routine and a much better understanding of our jobs. We learned to expect the unexpected. Wild and crazy experiences continued with our respective decks full of wild and crazy animals, more of which became ill. Some of our steeds would somehow get loose within their stalls. Others would get loose from the stalls by jerking their heads up and dislodging the huge plank from its position. Then they would be loose outside the stalls. A literal rodeo would ensue with us teenage attendants attempting to herd our charges back into some semblance of order. Yes, we would all enjoy telling more wild stories.

Other mares in their frustration, would kick and/or buck, their hind legs flying unbelievably high. I recall hearing, in the deck above ours, a thunderous, hammering crash of lumber as though a wrecking crew was determined to prove its ruthless havoc. We observed this beautiful, young but full grown female specimen literally splinter to bits the cage in which she had been boxed.

The most critical and most frustrating development besides the frequent death of the mares was their aborting their foal. Nearly every deck had such losses. One night one of our mares gave birth apparently after nearly full term. As quickly as possible we led the other horses out of the stanchion, tying them in safe places away from the very nervous and protective new mother. The darling little colt was strong enough to nurse standing on its own feet but soon started to lose that very strength, only to die within two days. It became sea food overboard like all the other fatalities.

"Chips" is the nick name given a ship's carpenter, at least that is what we were told, like "Sparks" is the nick name for the ship's electrician. Our "Chips" was a very large Swede with huge hands, arms, shoulders, feet and facial features fronting his massive head. I perceived him to be a tender man at heart. "Old Salt" that he was, I did not hear him swear as most sailors did. He was in charge of a very young crew to remove the dead bodies, those animals in the corners of the holds most vulnerable to the negatives of their existence. From the bowels of the ship this man devised lines (ropes) and pulley systems by which to extract a half ton body with the least effort or without butchering it. He would bellow to instruct his men at the steam powered winches on deck, "Heave easy!" With his heavy accent, it would come out, "EEEEF EEESI!! EEESI! EEEEF! EEEEF EEESI!!" repeatedly.

Always with care, the body went up the hatch, over the rail and down by the whack of a big knife on a bit of hemp, then float away. Interestingly, the morning after the first night in Danzig, after the animals were unloaded, Chips lie soundly snoring in the hall of the crew's quarters - roundly, soundly drunk.

For years I remembered the exact number of horses that we took aboard. I did not write it down but I continue to remember the number as 847. We unloaded less than 705 horses in Poland.

Most of the spaces on each deck that were not occupied by horses were filled with bailed hay. Each of the hatches were covered with planks and stacked high with bales. We would feed those stacks first as they were most convenient and their absence would allow more work room. Stockpiled on other decks was more hay that required more of our hard labor to move it to the horses. After all the hay from convenient spaces near number three hold was fed, we removed the canvas and planks from number four hold that was filled with based hay. Horse power was abundant on board but our own power was the primary initiative. Most of the bales were moved by hand, OUR HANDS, and muscles, several times. When all the nearby bales were moved from the first levels in our hold three, we needed to raise the bales from hold four. Man powering bales from another hold, dragging them across the top deck, then dropping them into our hold three proved to be a challenge.

Edgar and I implemented an obvious scheme to bring the bales up. We would position a plank across the hatch, secure to it a pulley with a line through the pulley and a hay hook on one end of that line. A mate down at the hay bales would fasten the hook in a bale while a person at the top would then grab the line in hand and enjoy a ride down as the bale came up. Of course, a third mate at the top would pull the bale to the side to make room for the repeated procedure. Fun! I was the first brave, or reckless, soul to ride down. The hay hook was not properly secured into the bale's wire, only into a small bit of hay which immediately pulled loose. I went down without any control while the hook went up so close to me it ripped open the front of my nice plaid shirt. Only fractions allowed the steel hook to miss my ribs or my yery prominent chin that I so amply inherited from my dear mother Ida! Near tragedy! I rejoice to consider this incident as an illustration of our Lord's protective care constantly with us. With practice we became skilled. Also, we made recreation of the task.

Each deck of each hold was accessed by two steel ladders; no stairs. One of these ladders was constructed for safety with surrounding protection. They reminded me of the silo chute at our farm at home or the very lengthy ladders on the grain elevators that frequent the Kansas landscape, those "Skyscrapers of the Plains." If a person ascending or descending would miss a step there was much less likelihood of falling. We were instructed to always use these safe ladders. The other kind were mounted in the open hold with nothing but open space around them for as many stories or decks as the hold was deep. These were the more accessible for us to use whereas the others were around behind the stanchions, somewhat out of the way. I think I usually used the open ones and I think there was never an accident from their frequent use.

One of the fun things among us was a signalling system in the event of the visit of a veterinarian or authority whose coming was unannounced. Most of us had suspicions about the two animal doctors aboard prompted by numerous stories about their strange function. We did not know what they would do to us if they thought we were dilatory. We just did not appreciate them snooping around. When one did come to our respective holds we agreed that an empty grain sack floating down the ladder would be a warning. It worked, sometimes. At other times it could be a false alarm or just a foolish prank on a friend.

The day our ship first developed trouble out from Virginia, it suddenly stopped vibrating as it always did while moving. We had evidently stopped forward motion, but to see for certain, I quickly climbed our steel ladder to the top deck to took out over a relatively calm sea. As I glanced down near the ship I saw a big fish, perhaps the largest I'd ever seen, maybe 12 to 15 feet long. Later in high wind we observed flying fish - small fish, not more than 8 to 10 inches in length with extra large fins. The fish would propel themselves out of the waves and then sail with the wind parallel with the ship's forward thrust. Some of the mates said they saw these little fellows hit the deck. I never did, but I watched them in amazement.

Another fascination of ship life was the colors and shades of the sea. The sea always provided a degree of motion as there always seemed to be immense swells and vast troughs. Our boat was the center of our world, yet that center could be contrasted with the entire surroundings as a mere dot. While cruising along at relatively normal speed and conditions the position of the ship in relation to the horizon reminded me of standing low in the middle of a huge platter. The entire horizon was high for the entire 360 degrees. At those rare times when there were few waves with no white caps, it seemed I could reach over the ship banister and fill a fountain pen with such incredibly blue, clear liquid as I did at my grade school desk from a bottle of ink.

Laundry was an urgent fact of life for each of us. There was a small room equipped for that purpose located at the far back of the ship. We used it for shirts, pants and underwear. Most ingenious was a very different but simple process of washing pants. Bailing wire from the baled hay was plentyful. We would string wire through the belt loops, stuff a handful of powdered soap in the pockets, throw them overboard and watch them churn in the wake of the ship's propeller, after tying the long wire to the rail. It worked very well. One problem, one guy's belt loops wore out, allowing him one less pair of pants. Eventually the ship's authorities learned about our methods and gave orders to cease and desist, as the wire posed a threat to the propeller and rudder function. Possibly some lurching motion of the ship could cause the wire to tangle in the machinery.

Swing and sway was a constant motion of our poor old vessel on the high seas. Fascinating to me were the extremes that could be registered by my camera as I sat in the middle of the deck and exposed a film. I attempted to indicate one side of the ship down one instant, then very high in a matter of moments later. I've long ago lost the film but it proved my point of extremes by showing no horizon on one picture, then from the identical position, the horizon appearing high in the sky.

Inside the ship I thought it comical to watch the horses lean together, back and forth with the ship's motion. There were those occasional times when the animals were not fighting either with us or with each other. They seemed to learn to "roll with the punches." They appeared to relinquish their bodies to the perpetual and unconquerable action of their footing; a whole herd of magnificent beasts accommodating their existence to the inevitable rhythm, swing n' sway, back n' forth, hours and days and weeks on end.

My observation of a well-designed vessel, constructed with hydrodynamics for smooth forward motion, would be like a knife cutting a path through the water with little wake or roiling of the water. In contrast, a vessel with less design, including our old tub, would always push its way forward with a continuous wave in front of the bow. I compare such motion with my sleek aluminum canoe and its slicing the water either forward or backward in contrast to a flat bottomed fishing dingy not built for speed.

One horrible problem for the horses, as alluded earlier, was the manure build-up at the rear or the stalls. Yes, we did remove some from a few stalls near the open hatches where "Chip's" men with heavy nets could haul it up and out. That was a labor intensive task that we were assured we need not worry about. We worried but not enough to do more. Of course, the problem compounded and eventually was nearly unbearable as the ship developed plumbing problems, preventing even urine from being pumped out. With extreme ocean waves in the North Atlantic winds, the ship heaved and rolled causing accumulations of urine sloshing over the deck floors, producing powerful ammonia that burned our eyes. This condition developed half way through our journey prompting our heading to Plymouth, England, the nearest port, for repairs. We traversed the return route of the Mayflower of four hundred years earlier; Boston to Plymouth.

In the winter of 1995, during which time I was serving with the staff of The American Church in London, Natalie and I took an train ride to Plymouth in southwest England. We visited the city from which the Mayflower embarked on its most famous voyage with our Pilgrim forefathers. We revisited the exact place where our ship had been 49 years earlier. It was the same rock marker with similar surroundings but a somewhat different geography as the ambitious city of Plymouth had almost completely and commendably rebuilt their metropolis into an excellent naval and commercial port.

From Plymouth onward we were constantly within sight of land during the day or shore lights at night. Fascinating! The White Cliffs of Dover remain vivid in my mind as a landmark for all English Channel travelers. The very popular tune with one phrase that I could remember, "There'll be bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover," rang in my head for days.

As we plowed our northerly way through the relatively narrow English Channel and into the North Sea, we were in sight of The Netherlands. The Frisian Islands on our right or starboard side were "just right over there," with the dairy cows grazing on the lush green pasture. Also, as we neared the "lowlands" of the northern parts of Germany known as Lower Saxony, we entered the mouth of the Elb River. It was ironic to see land with its human activity and industry, yet we never touched it as we approached the Kiel Canal.

Interesting to me is the national and international effects of military action upon some physical and geographic locations. In years subsequent to a war, massive efforts are expended and years of energy are exhausted in attempting to resolve the problems of "war crimes," "war damages" "war debts." In our own country some of our people are "still fighting the Civil War." One vivid effect of war is its ruthless attack upon the impressions of people and their perceptions of themselves. Illustration: Upon a ship's entering any seaport or estuary of another country's control its captain must receive aboard his ship a pilot, one whose knowledge and experience with the port is legally authorized to guide the ship to its dock or destination. The captain welcomes the pilot and entrusts his ship to that pilot. Our Captain Cronin was under that obligation when we entered the Kiel Canal. However, as the pilot came aboard and offered his hand to shake, our captain responded with something less than a greeting. I did not witness the moment but it was one of those many stories that pervaded our ship's day life called "scuttlebutt." Our captain turned his back on this former enemy and disappeared to his quarters, never again to be seen in the German's presence.

In northern Germany we experienced passage through the Kiel Canal with little problem though it was only a few months following World War II. To travel inland by ship seemed phenomenal to me. But there we were. That evening, going up on deck for intermittent glances between duties, we observed our passage in route east between the North Sea and the Baltic Sea traveling through Schleswig Hostein, Germany. During that night while we slept we traveled more smoothly and quietly, though slowly, than we ever had since leaving home. By morning I was a little disappointed to realize we were beyond the canal, headed towards the Baltic, having missed seeing what ever might have been seen. We were again, full steam ahead, east bound, probably in Danish territory.

Gdynia and Gdansk are the names of the twin port cities of Poland on the Gulf of Danzig. They are located near the mouth of the mighty Vistula River which serves as the major water route and drainage of the ancient, agriculture land of the Poles. Here is the country of a self-conscious people whose real estate has been fought over by other major empires for centuries. Our boyhood geography lessons, mostly in the 1930s and probably developed from the Nineteenth Century, taught us to pronounce the city name, Danzig, as it was then dominated by Prussian influence.

Early one day soon after we entered the Polish port and docked at the very meagerly equipped pier, we were instructed that we need no longer tend our horses. All responsibilities with them were to become the responsibilities of the dock workers who immediately boarded the ship prompting us to stay out of the way. Gladly! The ship's crew, however, were back in full swing, manning the steam powered winches that hoisted those large wooden horse crates topside to unload our dear mares. Those big boxes would be in nonstop use until the last animal was off our ship.

During the unloading process we would sometimes watch the activities from the ship's rail or "poop deck." I recall an occasional runaway horse on the docks. One hilarious scene was the reenactment of the miniature rodeo from our holds taking place now on a much broader scale. A breakaway steed would bolt from the dock hand and explore her newfound freedom. None would ever jump overboard or into the bay from the narrow runways of the planking, but they would certainly race to the edge of the dock and skid to a clumsy halt. Frantic workers who may have never been near a horse would give chase and herd the loose beast into a corner for capture, one awkward way or another. The horses were loaded onto the typically small rail cars that we had observed on other European trains, for transportation to Polish collective farms inland.

The horse manure was also unloaded for the aromatic well-being of our ship and the fertilization of farm fields. Immediately after the animals were removed the Polish workers set about by hand to load the manure on huge nets spread out on every hold floor, They were then unloaded onto rail cars at dockside to be hauled inland similar to the horse delivery. There was also a small amount of leftover bagged grain and bailed hay aboard that became a part of our delivery. It was intended for the animals and went with them inland as a part of the emergency aid. We happily claimed to be a part in providing a measure of international development.

A metal frame of narrow stairs was lowered from the starboard side of our vessel's midship for our passage to shore leave. We were always required to provide some identification as we went up or down - boarding or leaving - for any purpose beyond the confines of our "base". Surely no one could miss who we were, but the declaration of identity was absolutely necessary. It seemed extremely exaggerated to me - then, and even now, in recent months travel in European countries, and other nations around the world that have been dominated by European influence. I am convinced that this radically excessive measure evidences the ancient habits of the defensive - protective, fortress mentality that consumes enormous time and energy. It reflects to me a way of life that is cultivated, nourished, fed and maintained to withstand change, that inevitable phenomena on which generations upon generations of mortals have staked their total beings. Societies, cultures, states, nations and empires have provided themselves with a rationale for the "status quo" that they suppose has sustained them for centuries and thereby supported selfconscious distinctions. It is never enough to be simply human under a Heavenly Father. We mortals must prove our clannish differences from one another. And different we will be, not for living but to death. Yes, I confess my prejudice.

Dr. Gingerich, our "fearless leader," seemed to have some understanding of the Polish geography. Several of us followed him to what we called the "Spiral Steeple Church" as it remained standing in spite of the fact that there was no other remaining portion of the structure in tact. We climbed the stairs to the top and viewed near complete devastation in every direction. Under Dr. Gingerich's more knowledgeable guidance and sometimes with our naivety to any danger of traveling alone, we left the ship, little knowing where to. There were places to go, things to see and people to meet.

One day we took a short train ride into the country, mostly for something to do. We viewed a very poor landscape of farming and rural life, At the edge of a small village we purchased a semblance of ice cream - very soft, unsweet and flaky - cones from a vender with a small, two-wheeled cart. Nearby was a woman selling small, wooden, hand-made boxes from whom several of us each bought one or two souvenirs. I inadvertently left mine at the ice crearn stand and did not realize my carelessness until later after getting on the train returning to harbor. One of my mates, Lawrence Hurst, as I recall, immediately went back with me only to discover the dear woman had sold the boxes. Wow, what a profit for her! I bought two other boxes and was happy to return to the ship with my souvenirs. I have no idea what ever happened to them since.

Another excursion was to the major city of Danzig, a metropolitan center almost completely destroyed by the war. The first shots of the World War II encounter were fired in this vicinity. I thought, "perhaps the last reconstruction will take place here!" I did not see one building that was not severely damaged in some way, most buildings were completely ruined creating vast piles and mounds of rubble. To walk down some streets was to thread our way along paths that had been shoveled clear of brick and mortar or trads trodden smooth over streets several feet below. Occasionally persons would emerge from subterranean caverns or temporary hovels to beg for any kind of food or aid to help keep body and soul together.

It would probably be an interesting study in sociology to learn the source of many little items for sale by Polish men who hung around the docks. Just beyond the dock workers place of function we would encounter persons who would wish to acquire a few coins by selling razor blades. "Gillette," strangely pronounced, was one commodity available to anyone ready to pay. How they acquired them or from where, might be a flight of fantasy. Later some very fine German-made binoculars would slip out of a leather case or some technical equipment such as a very fine camera or an accordion would appear from under a coat to be sold for a handsome fee.

One late afternoon we observed, with both laughter and disgust, one of our infamous veterinarians, the younger, dark-complexioned one, come back to shipside, delivered by a horse-drawn buggy with him singing at the top of his lungs in his inebriated condition and waving some prize purchase and carrying others. Included among his items of loot were cameras and fine, coral-inlayed, accordion squeeze boxes. His antics made him even less respected to me and contributed to my awareness of the "Ugly American" image. The older, lighter complexioned veterinarian seemed to maintain a reserve that was less offensive. He, too, was probably out and about, enjoying liquor but with much less flamboyance than the younger vet.

Our times in the Polish harbor went swiftly. "Depart early tomorrow," we soon were told. With no duties our group of thirty or so were all out on the poop deck, the steel-floored gunnery position, perhaps 30 feet in diameter above our quarters, at the extreme stern with no weapons, just a steel railing all around with stairs access. We observed all the ship's maneuvers of disembarkation. It was a tight position and our stern bumped the opposite pier; no damage because of the old moveable wooden pilings. Upon clearing the narrow slip and its confines with no pilot, we cheered as we steamed out towards open water, perhaps not really knowing why.

Our next destination, unknown to us, was Copenhagen, Denmark, the capital of an historically navigation-minded folk. These heroic souls maintained neutrality during the war and therefore maintained their nation intact with little physical destruction. It was in Copenhagen that our boat was to receive about five days of repairs. Ours was a free life in a free land.

Tivoli was a delightful discovery near the heart of this beautiful, historic and proud city of a beautiful, historic and proud people. Near the ship yards to the north of the city where we were docked was the world famous statue, "The Little Mermaid," a bronze effigy about four feet tall, positioned on a rock in a city park near the harbor. From near there we would either walk to Tivoi or catch a small launch into the heart of the city for several hours of fun in the amusement park at little expense. Tivoli is an institution with centuries of cultural background. With my mates I went there several times then and again in 1976 with my wife, Natalie, to enjoy strokes of musical and artistic genius interspersed with nonsensical moments of clowning.

Another memorable moment of culture and beauty was our visit, with Dr. Gingerich's guidance, on a tour of royal residences followed by a visit to Thorvaldson's Museum. This great Dane displayed his talent in white marble, sculpting life-sized animals as well as human forms. At the furthermost point from the entrance was the room in which we met the twelve disciples standing in a semi-circle, six on either side of Jesus, whose head was bowed. I was inspired with the lesson, "To see Jesus' face, you kneel at his feet!" This unforgettable experience became one of my favorite sermon illustrations. I often used it decades later. It was very meaningful to me.

After departing this distinctly European capital we headed for the Baltic Sea, passing through the Kattegat and Skagerrak, into the North Sea and towards the Atlantic. Personnel of the ship's crew became a study in psychology for me. We rarely saw any of the officers but we would more often see several of the crew. I perceived them to be a strange mixture of characters whose credentials were only some vague awareness of nautical behavior and navigational experience. Most of them were young, not much more than ten years my senior, for whom those few weeks were just another temporary job with minimal expense or effort.

Proof of incompetence by someone at the helm whom we never knew, thundered through our empty ship's frame one evening when we were lazying on the rear decks. Steaming west away from Copenhagen into the setting sun, the person at the controls may have become blinded. We came so close to a buoy that our bow washed it aside preventing initial impact but the wake and propeller brought it back into contact with terrifying beat of the blades numerous times. Without cargo a ship rides high in the water and the propeller is near the surface. The vibrations created by the contact of a rotating prop on our large but empty object created a sound like we had never before heard. Those of us standing on deck in open air were momentarily petrified, then horrified to see the buoy sent spinning like a top in our wake. Our ship made a tight 360 degree turn in the vast open sea, but never to stop. That instance was fearsome, posited on the rumor that these very waters had been mined during the war and a few of those explosives continued to endanger shipping lanes. We continued west never again bothered by such collisions. We did, however, often feel the effect of our ship's propeller slamming into the water when in the open stormy Atlantic. Waves would lift us high and expose the prop, then force it to pound the ocean surface before sinking back into the sea. Nothing ever fell apart, it just felt like it would.

Rudy was the name of our cook. He may have had some responsibility for food preparation in the midship galley but his major function with us was to transport grub back to our dining room near the stern and serve us. He was an overweight chap from Brooklyn who claimed to have certified culinary training at "Sheepshead Bay" somewhere near New York City. He was a wee bit fascinating to me because of his considerably different choice of words, his accent and his manners. He apparently considered himself becoming an "Old Salt" as his language was frequently incoherent and heavily sprinkled with the 'f' word. I honestly think he was trying to impress us.

Banks was assistant to Rudy for our food service. He too was from the East Coast and quite young. He seemed to me to be about as dark a Negro as I had ever been near. He may have been the only black aboard. Banks was fun loving, a hearty laugher and always in a good mood. His language was of "Black Jive" before Black Jive was popular or even the word was invented. His speech, like Rudy's, was also different. He used some of the same theological terms I use but with varied context and sequence. We tried to respect both Rudy and Banks because they fed us and we always enjoyed eating regardless of the means or menus.

From fifty years' retrospect, I realize that I was afraid of our ship's crew and especially the officers. They were men of the military with years of regimentation and disciplined training in a macho system. Theirs was a world that I thought vastly different from mine. I retain that conviction about them perhaps as a measure by which to distinguish myself from them and thereby keep my distance from them.

I understand that the captain of any ship is "Lord of the vessel." Alas, his word is final. I think I saw our captain once. For some reason he came to our quarters in the stern one mid-day on some kind of inspection with several other officers when I happened to be there in the toilet. It was early in our voyage. His observations were negative and he growled some inane, radical order to whomever was next in command walking with him. To my recollection, the remarks were relative to the food service while the real problem had to do with the terrible drainage system of the ship's plumbing. The stools had problems flushing and the sinks did not all drain. Our shower stalls and toilet floors were awash. We were doing our job under adverse'circumstances while our living quarters were less than any ship's crew would have tolerated. I am convinced that our ship's authorities were frustrated in their responsibilities, therefore they exercised misplaced hostility towards us.

While we were in Poland we observed numerous old military machines and equipment that were abandoned and left to rust. Horrifying was an occasional burned-out tank, blackened and rusting, with the probability that its occupants were roasted alive inside. At one place we encountered what evidently was an arms depot location with leftover ammunition lying around. Several of us picked up rusting shells and kept them in our lockers as souvenirs to take home. Somehow the first mate, a tall, dark, handsome and deep-voiced officer, learned of our terrible stowage, came to our dining / sleeping quarters and feigned an attitude of horror at such misdeeds as ours. He ordered us to clean all those awful and highly dangerous pieces out of our lockers and heave them overboard! This exercise was supposedly an urgent measure for "the safety of our lives and the security of the entire crew." Of course, we were made to feel ashamed and later to remember with disdain.

Our ship's speed was only slightly faster as it shoved its way westward, empty, than the former experience going east with cargo. Our cowboy crew tried to think up worthwhile activities to comsume our leisure. There may have been a few chess experts who could utilize the opportunity to match wits with that most mysterious of board games. I never touched it, nor did I ever become aware of the fine points of playing cards. I had learned early on at home of their intrinsic evil. Those otherwise neat little symbols continued to hold a simultaneous fascination and stigma for me.

We did have numerous days of smooth sailing with brilliant sun. The glorious evenings of those long North Atlantic days afforded us time to devise a variety of ball games or hide-n-seek on the open decks. Very little true competition of any athletic ability was displayed as we generally just "horsed around," a pun reflecting from our previous weeks' function.

Following those most delightful dusk hours several of us took our mattresses up to the poop deck to sleep under the stars. We also took them back in during the night as the temperature would drop below any comfort provided by the few covers we would take up with us. One night while sleeping on deck a squall blew up with driving, cold rain that ran us inside. The next day there was reported some missing mattresses, probably having blown overboard. Of course I was innocent. After all, I had mine to sleep on at my own bunk the next night.

As I recall, reading was the most profitable and time consuming pleasure in which I indulged along with most of my mates. With my Bible, my mother had sent with me a copy of "The Adventures of Richard Haliburton." As I was on a great adventure of my own, I enjoyed his. Thus was enhanced the nomadic spirit of world adventure that has intrigued me in adulthood. Oh yes, "The Complete Works of A. Conan Doyle," and his "Sleuth of Fleet Street, London," was loaned to me by a mate. I may have read in my bunk or at the dining table and possibly topside, but the most unique place I found for reading was far forward near the bow in a gun turret. Of course there were no guns as our peace-time United Nations cargo ship was unarmed. In this twenty foot diameter space with a four foot steel wall enclosure was a huge hemp line coiled in its storage place. In the center of that coil I could sit in the warm sun, lean back, put my legs up, and in complete isolation enjoy reading for hours - even sleep. Very inviting.

My favorite spot for reading, especially dictated by cold or wind outside, was in a mate's bunk in one of the few rooms that accommodated only four persons. It was located next to our major space, the dining-kitchen-bunk room. In all these steel-walled, gray-painted rooms there were few creature comforts, few accommodations in the way of personal equipment besides sheets, pillow and a small locker for each of us; no blankets, bed lamps, closet mirrors and certainly little personal space. The only light was a single bare bulb on the ceiling. If anyone wanted to sleep while everyone else read or otherwise needed light, he just slept, maybe sticking his head in a pillow.

Several evenings a week we would gather in this large room for meetings of entertainment, instruction or devotions. Dr. Gingerich would usually be present to provide any official word from beyond our rehearsing scuttlebutt that forever floated over the decks. Roy Henry, one of our more mature men, would quote beautiful Psalms from the Old Testament, seemingly without end. Sometimes we would sing familiar hymns. Occasionally Professor Oswald or ministerial student John Hess would lead us with scripture, sermonette and prayer. We were religiously trying to be religious. Our formative years in the faith prompted our respective desires to grow in the faith.

Our favorite time was chow time. Rudy and Banks usually did not need to call us. They usually did their job very well. If a signal was required, a sharp stroke of a large spoon on a kettle was sufficient to attract our well-tuned ears. It surely must have been sheer, unadulterated robbery from the ships crew quarters to ours, but several late evenings our providers would summon us for snacks of several large loaves of fresh-baked bread, hot from the ovens, and a gallon can of cherry jam! Regrets remained with the guy who was not at once present for this most tantalizing delight. It was devoured immediately. With large spoons, butter and jam was slapped on an inch thick slice and snarfed without even sitting down. Perhaps the crew forward got wind of this unfair treatment or nocturnal thievery and soon put a stop to it. That sumptuous and savory delight was soon terminated and we returned to the simple, mundane fare of small boxes of cereal with canned milk and sugar straight out of the box for our bedtime repast. Such were our voracious appetites.

Suddenly one day towards the end of our voyage and as time grew heavy, big money enticed our mates to take on the gargantuan task of refurbishing the ship's deck. Vast surfaces of gunmetal gray paint needed to be hand chipped or steel brushed and reapplied. Several of our more ambitious friends eagerly pursued this task for a couple days before it finally soaked into others of us slower-witted members that it may be good for us, too. Within a few days most of us, as we heroically labored for the glory of our vessel and our country, had visions of handsome wages. Alas, none of us were ever reimbursed for our investments. Perhaps I had much less investment than others, at least my fury towards the ship captain for nonpayment was not so great as some. "Absolutely cheated," were the sentiments of several mates.

From fifty years perspective, I look to either the captain or my captain, Dr. Gingerich, with more careful feelings about that incident. My consideration towards him was similar to those I hold towards my own father, Abner. In his wisdom and insight as a father, he cleverly maintained a variety of very important tasks awaiting my energies to keep me well occupied and out of trouble. In younger years it was my task to hoe weeds from the garden and pull rye from the wheat fields. In later years I was to haul manure from the livestock corrals and rebuild seemingly endless miles of fences. Perhaps the deck work was a means to utilize our energies unchallenged.

Eventually we sighted land: USA at last! We could actually recognize a portion of the docks at Newport News Shipyards where we had embarked approximately two months earlier. I have little memory of our departure from the ship. Packing bags from our lockers took no amount of time as we were eager to leave the monster to mere memory and be "out of here" and bound for our respective homes!

Each of us was to receive a total amount of $100 for our summer's efforts. I had seen one of the ship's crew who had made it known he would part with his prize of a fine pair of 8 x 50 binoculars aquired in Poland. I bargained with him for them as I perceive them to be something I would like for future years. I still have them and use them to scan the mountainscapes of the Colorado Rockies in Gunnison County.

Several of us traveled by bus from Newport News to Washington, DC. I remember a school classmate, Dale Hostetler of Hesston, as one traveler on that short distance on the first leg of our returning journey from the East Coast. It seems I parted company from my group and by myself did a dash to several famous monuments including a nonstop run, two steps at a time, all the way up to the top of Washington Monument. Late that night I returned exhausted to the bus depot and slept on three chairs lined up to accomodate my prone body as I had seen others do. Sometime during the night an official awakened me to inquire of my identity. I had no uniform that a military person might wear. I sleepily indicated that I was awaiting a bus schedule, showed him my ticket but also quite officiously revealed my merchant marine card. He was apparently satisfied and I was satisfied to return to sleep. I may have used that neat little laminated card in subsequent and less official kinds of circumstances.

I was on my way to Scottsdale, Pennsylvania, to visit my new friend, Edgar Metzler. Upon arrival at his home, I learned of my misunderstanding or mistiming as he was not there. His parents, Mr. and Mrs. A. J. Metzler, however, gracious and understanding as they were, cared for me overnight. I was ambitious to hitchhike west from there so Mr. Metzler delivered me to a likely spot on a busy thoroughfare where I might catch a ride. Traveling west for the remainder of the mileage is very vague to me except for my travel to Goshen, Indiana, where I stayed overnight with my previous year's roommate, John Litweiller. From near there, all the way back to central Kansas, I caught a ride with a Hesston acquaintance by the name of Zook. At Newton that evening I purchased a bus ticket for Belpre, the most likely dot on the map nearest my rural Kansas home. Late that night the bus driver awakened me to report that I might want to get off the coach. I was groggy from being sound asleep. My six week's adventures had come to an end and I was extremely comforted to greet my parents who delivered me to their farmstead, the only place I had ever known as HOME!

Summer 1946