South
American Tour
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Our crew members along with the some civilians, probably at our commissioning ceremony on June 17, 1945 at the Philadelphia Navy Yard (click on photo to view full size)
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Before leaving for our five-month South American tour, left Philly to engage in fleet maneuvers around the waters of Newport, RI. I remember litttle about them except that this may have been the time that the hapless Ensign George C. Hastie upchucked on the captain’s main bridge in the middle of a cluster of high Navy muckamucks. Sayonara, George. I heard he was transferred to a battleship, less rock and
roll.
SAN
JUAN, PUERTO RICO
Then
it was off to San Juan, Puerto Rico, our first stop of the Grand
Tour, arriving on Oct. 26, 1945. Googling USS Little Rock ship’s
history,we stopped at Norfolk, Virginia along the way to load
supplies for the initial phase of our long journey, although I have
no memory of this stop. We were all excited to go ashore as we docked
at San Juan. “Old Town” was loaded with bars, connected to
brothel hotels, the most notorious of which were the Chicago Bar and
the All-Americcan Bar. The main clientele was U.S. servicemen.
As
we walked down the gangplank on our first liberty. We ran into a
group of Navy Hospital Corpsman (Our “chancre mechanics,”
“penis machinists mates”). a packet of condoms and a
self-adminstering “pro kit” to use right after sexual
exposure to prevent venereal disease. In this respect the Navy was
realistic and without moralizing. It knew the youing sailors were
going to have sex once ashore despite all its boot camp admonishments
to practice continence to escape the horrors of “VD.” We
had been shown gruesome movies about diseased organs in this earlier
indoctrination which were mandatory for us to watch. At Sampson, we
even had a lecture by former Heavyweight Boxing Champion GeneTunney,
who had been awarded a commission, warning us about sex and disease
and sternly preaching total abstinence. Most of us thought: “Get
lost, Gene,”
Once
ashore and roaming, one of our signal gang discovered an unused
basketball court in a rec center. Wearing dress whutes, we stripped
down to our waists and undershorts and had a vigorous game of pick-up
basketball in the sweltering, humid heat of the Caribbean sun,
After
showering and getting back into our dress whites we went to an
outdoor bar to drink a few beers. Jim Moran and Gerry Gaffney finally
broke my resistance to alcohol and I drank the first real beers of
my life, besides the foam from my father’s beer in 1933 to celebrate
the end of Prohibition. Finally, I became one of the guys! After
dinner in some cafe, we headed for the notorious Chicago Bar and had
another beer or so to show I’d broken the ice. A lively band played
some hot Latin dance music.
A
number of young prostitutes, some quite pretty, were sitting at the
tables surrounding the dance floor waiting to be asked to dance. We
were mostly young and inexperienced and it showed, as the young women
looked at us with some amusement and disdain. I asked a cute, pert
andv curvey lass to danve. The idea, of course, was to take a couple
of swings around the dance floor and then proposition your partner.
So I asked the youing lady if she’d mind, and with no expression on
her face, she walked me into the open corridor of the hotel next door
and up to a second floor room. A maid was hurriedly spreading a clean
sheet over the bed as we walked in..
VIRGINITY
LOST
I
slipped out of my jeans and shorts, gave her the money she requested,
slipped on a condom awkwardly and established myself in a missionary
position on top of her, she being on her back. I did get an erection
easily and ejaculated probably inside of a minute. My young lady was
not emotionally involved at all, showing me n unsmiling stony face.
She was obviously bored and I couldn’t blame her. She seemed tired of
rookies like me who really didn’t know what I was doing. She pulled
up her panties under her miniskirt and left immediately. As I came
out into the hallway, a Navy shore patrolman beckoned me to the rear
of the hallway where there was a toilet. He told me to go inside and
take a pro with the kit I’d been provided earlier, which I did and
returned to the ship.
Abot
300 of us swabbies from the Little Rock “popped our sexual
cherries” that first night ashore. A rite of passage of a sort.
On Oct. 30, 1945, we left San Juan for Rio de Janeiro. A couple of
days out at sea, the officer of the day announced over the PA to
congratulate us that there were only three cases of gonorrhea
contracted by our crew members in our sojourn at San Juan.
KING
NEPTUNE’S REALM
On
Nov. 5, we crossed the Equator in the South Atlantic and the majority
of the crew who had never traversed this magic line before were
subjected to a horseplay hazing ritual that converted us from
Pollywogs to Shellbacks. We were in the Realm of King Neptunus Rex,
the Ruler of the Ancient Order of the Deep.
This
involved a hazing ceremony for members of the crew who had never
crossed the Equator before, administered by Shellbacks who had. We
all stripped to our shorts while our tormentors lashed us with long
strips of leather as we went through their line, and dipped us into
giant vats of dirty engine oil. It turned out that our detested
communications officer Parker was also a Pollywog and underwent a
much harsher beating than any of us enlisted men. I don’t remember if
Wee Willie Miller was also a first-timer, but if he was, he would
have been targeted even more than Parker. Rank meant nothing during
this initiation rite. Our torturers were in command. It took a lot of
scrubbing in the showers to get clean again. But the deed was done
and full speed ahead southward bound. We hit the Equator at 00
degrees, 00'00# latitude and 36 degrees 59'00# longitude. I still
have my Shellback card.
RIO
DE JANEIRO
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The USS Little Rock in Rio de Janeiro (this photo is the original size)
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On Nov. 10, 1945, we steamed into Rio de Janeiro’s spectacular Guanadara Bay, rounding the famous dome-shaped promontory of Sugar Loaf which is featured in all travel books. We docked near downtown along a long pier, lined with ships of all descriptions , a short walking distance from the north end of Rio’s wide downtown main boulevard, Avenida Rio Branco, at that time an elegant shopping district, lined on both sides by stylish storefronts and cafes. Just to the south were the steep hills that housed the vast slums called the favelas, which housed the city’s poor and exist to this very day. With the World Cup soccer championships coming in 2014 some of the slums are being razed for thoroughfares to stadiums which much protest by the city’s favela residents. The 2016 Summer Olympic Games will cause a lot more demolition and building costing billions. There aren’t nearly enough hotels and hostels to house the 300,000 visitors expected for the soccer championships, so that some of the slum dwellers plan to rent sleeping space at perhaps $50 a night to fans in this violent crime-ridden area.
Within
sight of where our ship was docked was the famous California Bar,
reputedly the longest bar in Rio at the time, popular with the
maritime trades. An occasional sight during our visit was the
militarized motorcade carrying the then right-wing Brazilian
dictator-President Vargas north up the wide expanse of the Avenida.
People along the sidewalk would scatter at the sight and duck into
storefront entrances until the motorcade passed. The street was lined
with small stand-up coffee shops, patronized by well-dressed
Brazilian businessmen or professionals who would stop for the tiny
strong cups of coffee on their way to work. They would pour copious
amounts of sugar into these potent cups. stand and take them down
with one swallow, set the cup down on the narrow counter, then head
for the street on their way to their office.
We
finally hit the street on our first liberty. The seven of us
skivvy-wavers who usually hung out together gawked around the
shopping district briefly, then hailed a cab that took us through
mountain tunnerls to the fabulous beach city of Cocacabana. Once
there we spotted an open-air restaurant that appealed to us and
ordered the recommended steak and egg dinners, washed down by
excellent Brazilian beer. We were all Depression-Era American kids
and this was big time for us. Many of us had grown up hungry. I don’t
believe I’d ever eaten a steak before that day. We ate, drank, and
tipped generously and wandered around the beach awhile ogling at the
bikini-clad Brazilian beauties cavorting in the water or sunbathing
along the sand. One of my favorite songs has always been “The
Girl from Ipamena”, which was another beach community south of
Cocacabana. We never did get there.
NIGHT
LIFE
Night
was falling and we grabbed another cab, this time to the notorious
Lapa District near downtown Rio with its bars, night clubs, young
female bar hookers, and dance spots. Since we’d all bought our own
fifths of Four Roses whisky ( about $3 bucks Amerian) which we’d take
to the second-floor nightclub we patronized with us. We’d only pay
for chasers, each drinking the whisky from our own bottles and
sharing it with the cute young hostesses who sat with us. There were
rooms in the back of the dance floor for “hot and heavy action”
which we avoided that first night out on the town. This became our
routine every liberty night, the cab to Coacabana for steak, eggs and
beer, and back to Rio for the torrid night life of the Lapa District.
One
night, all of us somewhat tipsy, filed out of the club we were in and
out to the sidewalk. It was quite dark out on the narrow street with
very dim street lights. Suddenly a dark sedan tore down the street
past us, subjecting us to a fusillade of gunfire. Fortunately, none
of us were hit as the mystery sedan disappeared at high speed into
the night. This was the first and only time I’d ever been shot at, so
far in all my long life. . Obviously there were people out there who
had no use for us imperialist seadogs from theYankee warships. We
sobered up fast and returned posthaste to the USS Little Rock.
CALIFORNIA
LIL
A
daily sight on the dock by our ship was the notorious California Lil
, a tall lanky Brazilian woman who would promenade up and down along
the ship, trying to attract our attention yelling and gestulating at
us, sometimes with her middle finger. She didn’t appear of sound
mind. Of indeterminate age, she had reputedly lived in San Francisco
at one time, hence her sobriquet. I don’t know if any of my shipmates
ever tried to approach her, as she’d incoherently babble in both
Portuguese and English. She never missed a day parading by us while
we were in Rio.
I
only have a distant memory of one “sexcapade” during our
three visits to Rio. One night Gerry Gaffney and I were standing
alone on a dark street corner in the Lapa District. We were
approached by an ebony-skinned Afro-Brazilian woman of about 18,
walking barefoot, and clad only in a loose housedress on that steamy
night. Neither of us knew Portuguese and she little English; our hand
gestures indicated our mutual desires. The young woman hailed a cab
and Gerry and I sat in the back while our “date” sat next
to the driver. She directed the cabbie to the main road to Cocacabana
but had him pull short of the mountain tunnel onto a dirt track to
our right which led to a construction crew sandbank. The cab waited
for us as we took turns screwing her on a slanted bed of sand. It was
dark with only the moonlight to guide us. When done we gave her the
money she wanted and we all climbed back into the taxi.
As
we were about to enter the highway again from the dirt road we were
stopped by a pair of uniformed Brazilian gendarmes, with rifle butts
planted to the ground, topped by gleaming bayonets. What the hell was
this all about? Our young prostitute engaged in an animated
discussion with the soldiers. Soon they let us pass without further
incident. The cab took us to the ship, we paid the driver, and left
our young woman standing on the dock as we mounted the gangplank to
board, she laughing and throwing farewell kisses at us. As I
remember, that was the only sexual liaison I can remember having in
that glorious city.
SS
HERAKLES
Some
nights later I ended up doing shore patrol duty with another non-com
I didn’t know. Wev wereassigned to a night club toward the seaward
end of Avenida Rio Branco, a bit tonier than our hangouts in the
nearby Lapa District. There were hot strip shows and the place was
packed, with some fervant band music livening up the smoke-filled
joint. Our job was to watch out for drunken US sailors who might be
headed for trouble. While we wre not supposed to drink alcohol on
duty, we took off our SP armbands and hid them and our nightsticks
under the long table cloth adorning the table we were occupying,
ordered a couple of beers and sat back to enjoy the torrid scene.
Shortly
thereafter, a short young blond civilian guy, perhaps in his late
twenties, approached us and asked in very broken English for a match
for his cigarette. On a wild hunch I asked him in Finnish:“Oletko
sinä Suomalainen?” (Are you a Finn?). Sure enough he was as he
responded in a language I hadn’t heard since my last leave in
Westminster. His name was Yrjö (George in English) Lehtonen and he
was a seaman on the Finnish merchant ship “Herakles”
(Hercules) which was in port at Rio to unload some cargo. I got to
know him very well and we met several times after that while in port.
Lehtonen had seen action as a machine gunner in both of Finland’s
Winter and Continuation Wars with the Soviets. He had been a merchant
seaman before these wars in Rio on another Finnish ship, and had an
Afro-Brazilian girl friend he had met on his earlier voyage.
Finland
had been without coffee since the Continuation War and had drank some
awful ersatz brews since that time as a substitute for their beloved
real coffee. The Herakles was the first Finnish ship to the Western
Hemisphere since the wars and its prime mission was to go to Santos,
Brazil to pick up a load of ever-precious genuine coffee. I don’t
know what the Finns themselves brouight to trade, probably some wood
product derivatives.
Yrjö
wanted me to visit the Herakles and share lunch with the crew. So on
that day I stopped at “Small Stores” aboard our ship and
bought two cartons of Americsn cigarettes at 55 cents per carton to
bring as gifts to my new Finnish friends. The Herakles ship’s cook
had prepared a delicious Finnish-style feed for me as guest of honor
and for his shipmates who were all present. Of course, there were
several bottles of whiskey circulating among us. and I managed to
get royally plastered. A pair of Finnish seamen half-carried me back
to the Little Rock a short way down the dock and helped me up the
gang plank. The day watch was mildly amused as I staggered down below
to my compartment to sleep off the drunk.
I
met Yrjö and his shipmates again before we left Rio. Lehtonen
confided in me that he didn’t plan to return to Finland with the
Herakles but would jump ship in Rio to hang out with his girl
friends, and somehow try to land a berth on a ship headed Stateside
and try to find his long-gone father.He gave me a photo of himself, a
mailing address in Rio and his mother’s address in Finland in case
something happened to him.We did correspond for awhile after I
returned to civilian life at home until I no longer heard from him. I
wrote an inquiry to his mother, an extremely religious woman, who
said her only son had died in Rio. I sent her a few dollars and never
corresponded further with her.
MONTEVIDEO
After
our first ten days in Rio , we left on November 20 for our next port
of call, Montevideo, Uruguay, where we docked on Nov. 24. For many of
us it was our favorite port. It was a friendly city. It was a compact
town, with downtown pretty much accessible by foot. Lots of bars,
lots of available women. At our young ages, few of us were interested
in visiting museums, art galleries, historic cathedrals, or other
places patronized by older, more affluent tourists. We were mostly
“hot to trot.”
The
one historic event that fascinated us most was the aborted battle
beween pursuing New Zealand Royal Navy warships chasing the German
pocket battleship “Graf Spee” in December 1939, which had
sought shelter in Montevideo’s harbor, as Uruguay was not then
engaged in WWII. The Germans arrived in Montevideo on December 13.
The Uruguayan government ordered the Graf Spee to leave. On Dec. 17,
the ship left the dock but not far into the waters, its captain Hans
Langsdorff ordered the Graf Spee scuttled rarther than try to
confront the superior Royal Navy force waituing for it in the
international waters to give battle and sink it. Ten days later the
German captain commited suicide.
The
legend was that thousands of Montevidean residents and their
families had gone to the hillside overlooking the Rio de la Plata to
watch a possible sea battle in a cat and mouse scenario, carryiing
picnic lunches and all. But with the scuttling the blood sport
spectacle of sea battk was denied them. We were able to see the upper
parts of the Graf Spee still sticking out of the water that had not
been submerged during our 1945 visit. . We all sent postcards home
from Montevideo showing the Graf Spee in its final resting place.
But
our liberty days and nights in Montevideo were mostly spent in the
bars and their backrooms, drinking, carousing and making love. I
remember getting it on with a big, ample-breasted, giggly but shapely
20-something bar girl with massive well-rounded thighs who I made
whoopie with. I sat in a wooden kitchen chair while she straddled me
on top of my lap as she commandeered the pace of the action until I
ejaculated, she laughing the whole time. It was then then I first
discovered my natural submissiveness in sexual engagements.
The
one planned trip that many of us shared sponsored by our Uruguayin
hosts was an all-day train excursion to a national park known for its
bird life, particularly its proud, spectacular strutting peacocks.
Unfortunately, a number of my shipmates had their bottles with them
and got drunk, chasing and scaring some of the marvelous male
peacocks to pull out their tail feathers as souvenirs. I was sober
the whole trip and was ashamed of these cruel inconsiderate fools
from the Little Rock. We bade Montevideo good-bye on Dec. 3, as we
sailed north to the Southern tip Brazilian port of Rio Grande do Sul,
snuggled close to Argentina.
RIO
GRANDE do SUL
As
we docked at this steamy tropical port, our officers warned us that a
considerable number of Nazi Party functionaries had fled to Brazil
after the defeat of Germany, many of whom were said to be holed up in
Rio Grande de Sul. Don’t get involved in any incidents and stay clear
of these types when on liberty. I do remember seeing two young blond
men in short-sleeved shirts and waering dark sun glasses standing on
the dock a long time looking us over and talking between themselves
out of our hearing range. There was no downtown night club district
in sight and the local brothels were scattered along narrow dark
seedy back streets without markings. We were warned to stay away from
them as it was indicated there was a real risk of venereal disease
problems. There wasn’t the open bar culture we remembered from San
Juan, Rio and Montevideo.
But
that challenge we were going to defy. The back streets were patrolled
by detachments of unifomed Brazilian military police, armed with
large open sabres as they made the rounds as a unit. The patrol moved
along a route of several streets, disappearing around the corner only
to return av few minutes later. Acting on a tip, we waited until they
had passed out of sight, and rapped on thev door of a darkened
building. The door opened and we were led into a comfortable lighted
living room with two double beds. The only two women present were a
mid-thirties short, chubby, but still attractive blond madam, and a
young dark-haired late-teen beauty. Our gang were the only clients in
the room. The madam sent an errand boy to buy us some bottles of beer
which we paid for on his return.
So
both women took turns with us on the beds. I ended up with the madam
who was highly skilled in her love-making techniques. She was the
oldest prostitute with whom I was involved on our whole trip. After
our little party, the madam gave us the high sign when the patrol had
passed and we scrurried through the dimly lit streets back to the
ship. We then left this glum city and headed north toward the great
coffee port of Santos where we arrived on Dec. 17, 1945.
SANTOS
and the SÃO PAULO REVOLT
When
we docked at Santos parked directly behind us was an old friend, the
Finnish ship Herakles, being loaded with its precious cargo for the
long coffee-deprived Finns. I did meet. some of gthe crew members
again but don’t remember whether Yrjö Lehtonen was still with them,
as he may have already jumped ship when the Herakles left Rio as he
said he planned to do. The Herakles crew was happy to be headed
homeward. Later when on the Pacific Coast leg of our voyage, my
mother sent me a letter which included a clipping from Raivaaja
which
said that when the Herakles arrived in Helsinki Harbor thousands of
Finns were at the dock to greet it, with bands, speeches and all.
Meantime, Mamma had begun sending clothing and food packages to our
war-ravaged Finnish relatives which always included some coffee and
suger.once the war was over and shipping lanes clear. She didn’t
stint about sending goodies to Pappa’s side relatives, either, once
she got addresses for them as they were resettled after their flight
from Soviet-occupied old Finnish Karelia. My aunt Maija’s family
settled in Oulu and Kemijärvi and my late Uncle Pekka’s descendents
ended up in Lahti.
SÃO
PAULO DEBACLE
São
Paulo’s US corporate community and the Little Rock had big plans for
us crew members, a giant barbecue outdoor picnic to take place over
two days for 600 hundred of us in some park in that great
then-industrial metropolis. The first 300 left by speial train
already on Dec.18. I was on shipboard duty that day and was scheduled
to go in the following day’s contingent as part of the shore patrol.
Swift and Armour, General Motors and other US capitalist concerns
operating in Brazil were our hosts. Captain A. T. Mahan once said
that “the countries with the biggest navies will inherit the
world.” The USS Little Rock was part of the mightiest fleet the
world had ever known in our “good will” mission or “big
stick” diplomacy. However, things didn’t turn out all that rosy
for all our might in São Paulo on Dec. 18.
Our
first day’s partiers were royally wined and dined with a day time
barbecue by the American corporate community in some outdoor venue in
São Paulo. After this, the guys were given the free run of the
downtown of that vast then-primarily industrial metropolis. Most
everybody went sight-seeing or rubber-necking, but a handful became
involved in some serious drinking and started to strut around
downtown as if they owned the place. There were thousands of São
Pauloans waiting in long lines to board the open air streetcars that
served the city’s mass transit needs. Many of them were attractive
young women in their summer dresses. The drunken fools of ours
considered these Brazilian women fair game to get laid and began to
lift their skirts in the trolley line.
REVOLT
IN THE STREETS!
Immediately
the men in the queue became enraged and jumped these drunken
swabbies, beating them up. The word spread through the streets like
wildfire. “The gringos were sexually assaulting our women!”
The anti-communist Vargas dictatorship kept a tight lid on most
leftist dissent, but the public rage over this incident was
unstoppable. There were leaflets on the streets in minutes. So
beneath the surface there was reason to believe that there was plenty
of left-wing organizational networking which had been alerted to the
task. Growing hundreds of men chased our uniformed sailors all over
downtown to give them a thrashing.
Soon
the Brazilian police and army were in the streets herding the Little
Rock sailors they saw in the downtown area behind some makeshift
barricades, from where they were transported to the special excursion
train at the railroad station. Two of our signalmen, SM2Cs Hart and
Goldblatt, had opted to see a US movie after the barbecue and upon
exiting the theater, saw a bunch of angry civilians descending upon
them. Fortunately for them, a military jeep pulled up to them as they
started to run and brought them to the barricades from where they
were evacuated to the train.
Thev
demonstrators converged on the railway station and began to smash the
windows as the sailors were being herded into the passenger train
vans. and they were forced to lie on the floor to try tos escape the
flying broken glass as every last window was smashed.
CONTINUE NEXT COLUMN
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INTERNATIONAL
INCIDENT
So
it was a sad sack trainload that returned to Santos late that night.
We had heard about it earlier on the ship well before the return of
the train. It was a sorry lot that came up the gangplank, many cut
and bruised with their dress white uniforms dirty, bloodied and torn.
Telegrams flew back and forth beween the US and Brazilian governments
and the ship. It was an international incident with profuse apologies
by the State Department as Intelligence agents were flown almost
immediately to Santos to investigate. So the Navy got the worst end
of the Big Stick instead of wielding it. It goes without saying, our
next day’s excursion to São Paulo was cancelled. as we licked our
wounds. The popular resentment against Yankee imperialism had broken
loose with a vengeance. There was no joy in Mudville as we left
Santos to sail north back to Rio, docking there on Dec. 22, where we
stayed over the winter holiday season.
RIO
(Second Time)
We
wondered what the reaction would be by the people of Rio about the
news of São Paulo which by now would have been spread like wildfire
all over Latin America. We were allowed only four hours of evening
liberty for one quarter of the crew at a time under the
circumstances. I was in a group of six shore patrol petty officers
who were sent to duty at Cocacabana Beach. We were left off in pairs
from the truck at different points along the beach community with a
monetary allowance for dinner and for any emergency phone calls.We
were told to phone immediately if any problems arose and the Navy
Black Maria wiould be dispatched to the scene.
As
it was,we were completely ignored by the populace. Nobody spoke to us
and only a small handful of Little Rock seaman came out to Cocacabana
at all that evening., probably becuse of fear. Our shore patrol was
pretty nervous, too. But absolutely nothing happened. The Black Maria
picked us up as the liberty period drew to a close to take us back to
the ship. As we were driving back to Rio the officer of the day
opened up a bottle of whiskey and offered us all a couple of snorts
in appreciation. But the cockiness we had displayed on our first trip
to Rio was now pretty much subdued. We even heard that some high
society Brazilians had approched members of the US corporate
community social elite and inquired about “when are those beasts
going to leave?” We had made some pretty dubious history in São
Paulo.
RECIFÉ
/ BAHIA
On
January 3, 1946, we left for Recifé, further north along the
Brazilian Coast where we arrived on Jan. 7. From January 12 to 15 we
visited the Port of Bahia. I can’t remember which city it was that
had a public marketplace on the beach level, at the bottom of some
high cliffs which could be scaled by outside elevators to other parts
of the city along the top of the cliffs. I remember taking the lift
to the top and walking around a residential neighborhood. My memory
of the marketplace in one of these cities was the sight of a beef
carcass hanging by some hooks in the hot sun and covered with flies.
Almost made me want to become a vegetarian on the spot. I faintly
recall some shipboard military maneuvers from one of these ports
where the Little Rock wanted to show off its gunnery capabilities to
top officers of the Brazilian forces and the country’s political
elite. We repeated these exercises later when we arrived on the
Pacific Coast. It was showcase time for the Big Stick.
RIO
(ONE MORE TIME)
We
returned to Rio on Dec. 17, to take on provisions for the long trip
south where we would sail aroind Cape Horn and head for Chile. I
think it was at this point that we picked up a section of the US Navy
Band which flew down from the States and would remain aboard our ship
for the remainder of our journey.as we headed for Pacific waters. I
suppose one purpose of the band was not only to play for us swabbies
but to the communities of the ports we would visit to give a more
positive image of our mission after the debacle at São Paulo.
ROUNDING
CAPE HORN
The
weather started getting colder as we headed out of the tropical zone
and sweaters, wool caps and peacoats came in handy standing watch.
on the signal bridge. We saw the Falkland Islands faintly in the
distance through the fog to our starboard as we were nearing the
Horn. I was on watch one day when I spotted a freighter to our
starboard heading east to our west. We exchanged identity signals
with them by Morse Code with our flashing lights. I chatted that way
with them for a little while and found out that the freighter was
coming from New Zealand and headed toward Great Britain. At times we
saw schools of whales in the distance.
MONSTER
GALE
As
we hit the Straits of Magellan we were overwhelmed by a monster
four-day gale. Our big shipwas like a fragile leaf as we plowed on,
or bow plunging out of sight into the water and then rising upwards
like the legendary Moby Dick, the Great White Whale of Herman
Melville’s great novel. Below in the mess hall, our dinner trays
would slide off the tables as we lurched side to side, up and down,
unless you kept a tight grip on them. Trying to sleep on your bunk
was like riding a roller coaster gone beserk.
Going
on watch was crazy for what could you see in the howling darkness
with being practically drowned by the waves coming at you accompanied
by fierce winds? One had to really clutch the railing tight going
up the “ladder” (stairs) to the signal bridge frrom below.
On watch it was best to lash yourself to something secure to prevent
some mammoth surge of a wave from sweeping you overboard. In trying
to survive the elemental forces of the gale, made our 1938 New
England hurricane seem like a gentle summer breeze in comparison. It
was the worst storm I’d ever seen, even since. Four days of hell on
earth! Finally, we rode out these fierce elements and calmer seas
returned Fortunately, we lost no sailiors to the storm but the ship
looked like a floating wreck.
CONCEPCION,
CHILE
We
were in sad shape when we pulled into the southern Chilean port of
Concepcion for January 29th and 30th. We spent the entire time
repairing and scraping and repainting the ship so we could move on.
We weren’t allowed liberty at Concepcion as I recently read in a log
of th Little Rock’s itinerary it was because of the unstable
“political climate” of the city. My guess is that there was
a strong leftwing movement in Southern Chile and Captain Wee Willie
Muiller didn’t want to chance another Sao Paulo.
VALPARAISO
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The starboard side of the ship in Valparaiso, Chile (click on photo to view full size)
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From
Februruary 1-11, we visited Valparaiso, Chile, a rather charming port
city that at one time was a favorite destination for Grace Line
passenger ships emananting from New York. My Aunt Olga, Uncle
August’s third wife, told me later that she has been a dining room
server for some years on the Grace luxury liners and knew Valparaiso
very well. So were invited to a dinner and dance party at a clubroom
hosted by the Valparaiso business community and the US diplomatic
corps. I talked with an older Scottish entrepreneur who operated a
printing plant in the city. He was accompanied by his Chinese wife
and a heavy set Eurasian daughter about my age. I talked to the man
about my ambition about becoming a journeyman typographer upon my
return to civilian ,life.
It
was probably during our Valaparaiso stopover that the Radio Shack
passed us the word about another imbroglio by the crew members of the
newly-commissioned giant aircraft carrier Franklin D. Roosevelt in
Rio de Janeiro. Apparently the FDR was on a “good will”
tour of its own on the Atlantic side of the continent while we were
churning north along its Pacific Coast. Word was that on their first
liberty night, hordes of its seamen had taken over the notorious
California Bar near the waterfront that we remember so well from our
experience, a drunken fight may have ensued and the FDR crewmen
employed their manual “weapons of mass destruction” to
totally demolished the joint. So the Navy continued to escalate the
anger of the host country like some of our idiots had done in Sao
Paulo. Ironically, the late President Franklin Roosevelt, in whose
honor the carrier had been named, had always acclaimed our “Good
Neighbor” policy with the nations of the Southern Hemisphere. In
reality, these kind words masked the hard-line US imperialism of the
Monroe Doctrine When FDR was told that we were supporting the elder
Anastasio Somoza of Nicaragua as a dictator, he responded: “Yes,
but he’s OUR dictator.” It wasn’t until the 1979 Sandanista
Revolution that the Somoza family dynasty was overthrown in
Nicaraugua.
PACIFIC
COAST GUNNERY SHOW
I
don’t recall whether it was at our Valparaiso visit or at the next
Chilean port of call at Antofagasta that we put on our Pacific Coast
show of the gunnery skills of the mighty Little Rock for the
country’s military and members of its political elite, to convince
them of our prowess as a war vessel. We
had
two small fighter planes moored to our main deck, and they took off
when we went out to sea, pulling drones on long lines resembling kite
strings in their wake pulled to serve as targets for our mighty guns.
For the longest time and a number of attempts our gunners kept
missing the drones as they passed by in the skies. This hardly made
much of an impression on us and our Chilean guests. The issue of our
artillery just kept whiffing through the air. We were afraid the
shells would hit the planes themselves. The Big Stick wasn’t working
the magic that the Navy had planned. I think that I was more
accurate at 17 with a shotgun during my hitch in the Massachusetts
State Guard in blasting away clay pigeons catapulted into the air for
our weapons practice. Finally, at long last, the drones were blown to
smithereens after too many rounds of aim, fire, and miss. I would
grade this bungled exercise with a D+.
ANTOFAGASTA
/ IQUIQUE, CHILE
I
don’t recall getting ashore at either of these two northern Chilean
ports. We stopped at Antofagasta from Feb. 13-15 and Iquique from
Feb. 16-21. Both were in arid areas rich in copper ore and saltpeter.
Iquique had one time belonged to Peru and Antofagasta to Bolivia
before they were finally claimed by Chile after a three-way war
between these three countries in the Battle of the Pacific in 1879.
Chile mined these areas for their copper, saltpeter, nitrate and
other minerals. As is usually the case, the miners who worked in
these industries were treated as the lowest wage slaves by their
bosses. But they also organized into militant unions to fight for
better working conditions and wages. In 1906 in Antofagasta 3000
railway workers who hauled the ore were organized in the Ferrocarril
Antofagasta de Bolivia, went
on strike They marched to the Plaza Colon (main square of the city)
for a demonstration. The army was waiting for them and shot and
killed 58 of the workers, which became known in Chilean labor
history as the Massacre of Plaza
Colon.
Same story in Iquique in 1907 in a strike of the saltpeter miners.
The workers met at the Santa Maria school and marched into the center
of town. They were met full force by army troops who killed 500-2000
strikers in what became known as the Santa
Maria de Iquique Massacre.
POSTSCRIPT:
THE IWW IN CHILE
Before
we sail on to Peru, I just want to mention that in the 1920s the
Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), the radical class-based union
seeking worker emancipation from the rule of capitalism, had a major
presence in Chile. It functioned independently from the IWW’s
General Adeministration in Chicago. I’ve been a proud member of the
now small but feisty IWW in the US since 1969. Founded in Santago in
1919, it became one of the largest regional affilates of the IWW in
its history in Chile. At one time it published ten newspapers, the
most prominent being Accion
Dirtecta (1920-26).
It had meeting halls, printing plants, and libraries and a strong
prsence in many cities, including: Santiago, Valparaiso, Concepcion,
Antofagasta, and Iquique. Militant workers in many industries
belonged as well and it had large student support.
But
it was continually under corporate and state repression, led by the
nitrate barons of Northern Chile. It was perodically attacked
violently not only by corporate goons, army and the police, but which
were augmented by clergy and students from Catholic colleges. During
the White Terror of 1920, its facilities all over were raided and
trashed, and IWW members were killed, beaten, jailed, with its
foreign-born deported. But it in the brief perios of calm that
followed each wave of attack from the ruling class, it would rebuild
its assembly halls, set up new printing plants, and start publishing
newspapers and other periodicals again. During the frequent episodes
of terror, Accion
Directa
would be published on IWW presses in Chicago and smuggled into Chile
by Wobbly merchant seamen. But there were success stories, too,
during its tumultuous existence. IWW bookbinders won a 44-hour week
in a successful strike in 1924.
There
hasn’t been all that much written about the Chilean IWW, but for more
background information I would suggest the reader to utilize:
iww.org, libcom.org, or check out Google. .
CALLAO
/ LIMA, PERU
On
February 23, 1946 we docked at Callao, Peru the port city west for
metropolitan Lima, the ancient capital. For many kilometers as we
approached the port, the ocean surface was covered by an amazing
spectacle of the colorful Portuguese men-of-war sea creatures as far
as the eye could see for hours on end. A splendid, beautiful sight,
but falling off the deck into their midst would mean sudden and
cartain death. In 1532 an army of Spanish conquicadores
led
by Francisco Pizzaro defeated the warriors of the Incan Empire led by
Atahualpa in battle. On Feb. 18, 1535 Pizzaro founded Lima,
originally called Ciudad
de los Reyes (City
of the Kings). The oldest continuing university in the Western
Hemisphere, the National University of San Marcos in Central Lima was
founded on May 12, 1551. Much older than our own Harvard University.
Lima was taken over by an army of Chilean and Argentine patriots led
by General José San Martin, and became independent of Spain. Lima
was mobbed and destroyed by Chilean troops during the famous Batlle
of the Pacific of 1879-83. Also during this perod, mobs of Lima’s own
angry poor destroyed the property and many lives of the rich. Class
warfare! Slowly the city was rebuilt and featured wide, splendid
boulevards inter-lacing the city. Six years before our visit, the
population of Lima was about 0.6 million. Today in March, 2014 it
approaches eight million.
Lima
was a must-see destination for most of us Little Rockers. At that
time we commuted from Callao to the capital by open-air street cars
or motor buses, I can’t remember which. We walked the streets in
awe, admiring the stately buildings dating back to the the Spannish
colonial era. The perimeter of San Marcos University was a must-see.
Just meandering and observing was a history lesson for us young
seamen of an urban culture much older than ours.
TRAIN
TRIP HIGH INTO THE ANDES
Our
biggest treat of this visit was an all-day special train excursion
high up into the Andes mountains. We ascended precipitously from a
winding river valley at near sea level. Soon the river became only a
thin silver ribbon winding its way far below us.as we chugged along
with our coal burning engine. All along the steep inclines as we kept
moving upwards were terraced farming plots providing a precarious
living for these Peruvian Indian farmers. I don’t know what they grew
but they made do for themselves and theur families in a hard scrabble
way, as there were numerous terraces one below the other descending
down the mountainsides. How they managed to irrigate their plots
remains a mystery to me.
It
was freezing cold and windy when we reached our ultimate destination
high up in a mountain valley mining town. We walked outside the train
huddling in our sweaters, peacoats and woolen watch caps. The ruddy
faced Inidian miners and their families, kids, babes and all, came
out to stare at us strange, mostly pale-faced creatures from an
entirely different world, huddled together just trying to stay warm.
It was difficult to communicate even by gesture. Many of thse miners
may not have even known Spanish, comminicating in their old tribal
tongue in their isolation in this mountain village. Our long descent
via the route we came shortly ensued and we reached the train station
in LIma in pitch darkness, and grabbed our trolley connection to the
port.
Our
next port of call after leaving Lima, was Santa
Elena, Equador, where we sojouned from March 7-9. I never went ashore here, either
but tried to take in what I could from the signal bridge via “long
glass” or telescope.
Panama
Canal Zone
BALBOA
/ PANAMA CITY
On
March 11 we docked at Balboa on the Pacific side of the Canal Zone,
the port for Panama City. Panama City was the last time I got ashore
before our return to the States later that month. It wasn’t a liberty
night for me but another stint on Shore Patrol. We were sent to the
Zona
Temperencia or
Zona
Rojo, a
gritty slum district marked by several blocks of bucket-of- blood
gin mills in Panama City, along with prostitution. . The jeep dropped
me and another SP off on a block where the north side of the street
was lined by a string of bars and cheap cafes. On the south side of
the street was a burnt out bare hill which was pock-marked by the
makeshift cribs of the sorriest, end-of-the line prostitutes I’d ever
seen. Their ramshackle sheds burrowed into the hillside were propped
up by boards and sheet metal scraps, with maybe a mattress on the
ground with tattered curtains at the entrances for whatever action
took place. The women on the hillside were scraggly, emaciated, and
actually aged beyond their years, worn out and sickly and shabbily
dressed. The women we had partied with in Rio and Montevideo, looked
like runway model call girls in Las Vegas in comparison.
We
were under strict orders not to let any US servicemen up the hill in
the unlikely chance someone would be willing to chance catching
venereal disease by so doing. These desperate looking sad creatures
came up to us begging us to allow prospective military clients to go
through to see them. They were even willing to split their fees in
half with us if we would cooperate with them. We really felt sorry
and saddened for them as they cried to us in desperation but we
adamantly refused their pleas. For they were Third World victims left
to linger and die as victims of Yankee Imperialism which controlled
and exploited their small country for power and profit. “No,
no, no es posible, Senoritas,” was
all we could say.
BAR
ROOM BRAWL
Shortly
thereafter the jeep returned to pick us up with the O.D. saying we
need to respond to an emergency elsewhere. We climbed aboard and were
taken to a corner bar a couple of blocks away. A bunch of merchant
seamen had gotten into a drunken brawl as we showed up. Since there
were no US Navy or other military personnel involved we were ordered
to stand aside and just observe the melée. A squad of tough
Panamanian cops tore into the scene swinging.their clubs. They were
mean little guys and their hatred of anything gringo
showed
itself as they came down mercilessly with their weapons as they
dragged the bloodied seamen into paddy wagons at the corner. I saw
pair of hands appear under one of the swinging doors to pull a
helpless seaman lying on the floor out by his feet to safety. It was
like a scene from a Wild West movie. It all took only a few minutes
and it was all over. So that ended my one-night stand in Panama City,
comparable to what can be seen on weekend nights in US-Mexican border
towns where death is a frequent visitor. .
ENEWETOK
FLOTILLA
So
now we proceded to head for Colon
on the Atlantic Coast of Panama through the Canal as we were elevated
by locks to higher levels on the first part of our passage. We were
scheduled to arrive in Colon on March 15. It was a thoroughly
impressive expereince as we moved on lock by lock, with lush jungle
foliage besieging us on both sides to the water’s edge as we
listened to the endless exotic animal and bird sounds for choral
accompaniment. But we were treated to another phenomenal meeting as
we began our descent toward the Atlantic side of the Canal.
A
strange silent armada of hundreds of old ships began to pass us on
the lane of locks to our left going in the opposite direction. They
were of all shapes and sizes, both military and merchant, bound for
the Pacific. They were headed for the Enewetok Atoll in the Marshall
Islands in the far Pacific as target ships for further long term
atomic testing that took place between 1948-58. It marked the
escalation of nuclear weapons programs as the Cold War gatherted
steam since the Russians and others were developing nuclear arsenals
as well. As if the horrors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki weren’t enough.
It led to a perilous standoff among nuclear-armed nations in the
shadow of which we still exist with realistc fear. The almost endless
parade of scrapped ships went on for hours as we proceeded.
We
were only in Colon for a day or so and proceded to our last foreign
stop, Cartagena,
Colombia
in the Caribbean from March 16-18. I wasn’t that interested in going
ashore, as I was totally focused on getting to the States for my
discharge from the Navy and into civilian life again.
Norfolk,
Here We Come!
The
Stateside port that was our destination was Norfolk, Virginia, where
the dischargees of the crew would disembark and be dispersed to the
various parts of the country to be mustered out at Navy locations
closest to their homes. We were scheduled to arrive on March 23rd. As
we churned north along the Atlantic, the lieutenant commander who was
our communications officer and a decent chap approached me and tried
to persuade me to re-enlist for a four-year hitch as he thought I was
a good signalman and an asset to the Little Rock. He said he’d
guarantee my promotion to Signalman Second Class if I’d agree to do
so. “No thanks, Sir, for I have other plans for the future.”
We
hit turbulent seas as we approached Norfolk and had to render
assistance to a merchant ship in distress which we accompanied slow
motion all the way to port, where we arrived late at night well
behind schedule. We waited for hours to disembark with our seabags
loaded for departure along with our handbags that contained
toiletries, papers and other small items for immediate access. It was
3 AM when several dozen of us hit the receiving barracks for
assignment to sleeping barracks where we would spend whatever
remained of the night.
RACISM
AT ITS UGLIEST
Among
us were several African-American officers’ stewards who had lived in
segregated quarters on the Little Rock from us caucasian crewmen.
They were ranked as high as warrant officer and and included chief
petty officers. None of us had slept for about 24 hours and were dead
tired with the only thing on our minds was finding bunks on which to
crash. Presiding over the receiving barracks were several masters of
arms to process us. Big strapping white guys with first or second
class petty officers with hash marks on their sleeves to indicate
they were regular career Navy. Out of nowhere, their leader bellowed
to the African-American stewards: “Hey you guys, grab some
brooms and start sweeping down these barracks!” The stewards who
had been exposed to white racism all there lives refused courteously
but firmly. The MA yelled at them again. A spokesman for the stewards
responded: with dignity: “If this was a commissioned officers’
wardroom aboard ship we would comply, but we’re here to be discharged
and not obligated under your orders to work.” So the MA’s
marched them out of the barracks, perhaps to a lock-up.
The
rest of us were stunned and pissed, as this harrassment was unfair
and totally uncalled for. Yet none of us white guys had dared to
speak up to the bullies in defense of the stewards. This was probably
the first time most of us had seen this kind of racism inn action.
What would have happened if we’d all expressed our solidarity with
our Navy comrades of color? Who knows? Yet I very much regret that
night and my ineptitude in trying to do something about it.. We were
just returning home from a war that was supposedly for democracy
against totalitarian fascism, but witnessed a taste of fascism on our
first night on home shores. We were eventually assigned to a sleeping
barracks where we dragged our seabags and crashed into our bunks.
BOSTON-BOUND
Morning
came and we hung out all day waiting for our assignment for train
transportation to whatever city where we’d be discharged. There was a
large contingent going to New York. I was in a draft of six who
would go on to the Fargo Building in Boston where we’d be mustered
out of the military. The ranking petty officer of our Bay State group
carried our paperwork. We and the New Yorkers were assigned to
sleeping cars to leave late that evening, my first ever Pullman
experience. We got to NYC about 6 AM the next morning and our Boston
unit had a couple of hours wait to catch our Boston train.So we had
breakfast at a Manhattan cafeteria and then stopped at a bar for a
celebratory drink. So we belted down our first shots of whisky since
our return to the States. Since we were in uniform the bartender
never asked for our IDs.
Later
that day we arrived at Boston and the Fargo Building. It took time to
be cashiered out with our honorable discharges. The Navy didn’t waste
any time but had us attend meetings trying to get us to re-enlist.
Since there was a mass exodus since the war was over the Navy worked
hard to try to replenish its ranks to a functional minimum. But for
most of us it was no go. We wanted out. While in Boston, the Navy
served us its equivalent of gourmet chow. But most of us remembered
the rot-gut we got from time to time, “shit on a shingle”,
(chipped beef on toast), that the lure of good food didn’t fool us
into re-upping.
During
our tenure at Fargo, I ran into Joe Testarmata of Fitchburg with whom
I’d enlisted.. He was awaiting discharge, too. He had been a
cheerful, happy-go-lucky guy when we first met but no more. Joe was
trembling and shaking and there was fear and terror in his eyes. He
must have gone through some traumatic battle experiences in the
Pacific theatre to be in that state. Now we call it “post-traumatic
stress disorder” (PTSD) since the Iraqi-Afghanistan war. At one
time it had been called “shell shock” but now it was
clinically identified and named as PTSD.
On
March 27 the great day came. I propped my seabag on one shoulder with
my zipper bag in the opposite hand and headed for North Station to
catch the Fitchburg train. From there I’d pick up the Flanagan’s bus
line to Gardner and get off at Westminster to begin the next phase of
my young life at age 20 now.
End
of Installment 6
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