Coming Home From War (part 1 of 2)

By C. L. Vestal (with permission)

Note: My friend C. L. Vestal was quite a writer. Several years ago he asked me to help type some of his handwritten memories of the war; I was very touched by his stories. As I was re-reading some of his WWII stories last week, I came across this one I want to share with you. It is almost like getting to talk to C. L. again. I hope you enjoy it. He had served on Stirling Island in the West Solomon Islands. This was written 2 Feb 1983.

For over three weeks we had zigzagged across the Pacific. This was when the ‘Ole Boy jumped overboard (and was rescued). Would it be a day more or a day less since we were crossing the 180 degree dateline coming backwards? “Yonder she is! Yonder she is!” someone yelled. Sure enough way over the horizon was the California coast line. It was about an inch and a half long it looked like, from the top of the top of a wave. Then we would go down in a valley between waves and lose it then on top of the next wave and it would be larger. That is like life also. As we go down into the valley of despair, the next hill we climb brings Heaven a little closer and more beautiful.

Soon we could see that coast line all the time from the north horizon to the south horizon. That’s when a bunch of us went below and got our gear lashed up to unload. Again the questions were flying, “Is that below San Diego or north of Los Angeles?” We had shipped out from San Francisco and we hoped that was where we would return and dock.

“Yonder she is! Yonder she is!” someone yelled again. Sure enough dead ahead was one of the most beautiful sights this side of Heaven, the Golden Gate Bridge. There was about an inch between the pillars that held the huge cables as it appeared from that distance. Of course, we knew it was 4200 feet between those pillars. Many of us never went below top deck until we had docked. We didn’t want to miss any part of this experience of returning home. We missed noonday chow, but we were not about to miss any part of this beautiful experience for any more troopship chow.

As we got closer to the Golden Gate, we realized that we were just treading water, just barely moving. There was a big freighter coming out that was riding low in the water. You see, it was heavily loaded with bombs, bullets, bandages, beans and bulldozers, headed for the war zone. We watched a small speed boat plowing along behind, then it pulled up along side of the freighter and a man jumped from the ship into the speed boat. Here it came to us just hitting the tops of the waves it looked like. It pulled along side of the USS General Hershey (C.L.’s Ship) and we watched this man grab our ladder and come aboard. He saluted the colors, then the Officer on Deck (OOD) and was then escorted to the bridge. There he saluted the captain, “Sir you called ahead for a harbor pilot, and here are my credentials.” “Yes,” replied the captain. “While I had the time and a choice, I asked for you.” Then the captain continued, “This is my ship, my crew and my cargo. It is a precious cargo. They have paid the price to come home. They are all aboard and accounted for, including the one that went astray.” There had been more rejoicing over the one that was lost and we turned around and went back to save him, than the ones that stayed aboard. In or by his actions,” the captain said, “I’m smart enough to take it, my ship, my cargo and my crew under that bridge and through that mine field. Into your care, I commit my ship.” (There are a number of smart people on this earth that can drive their own cars, own banks, and build capsules that fly into space and back, but they still think that they can cross Jordan alone. I contracted my ‘Harbor Pilot’ to help cross Jordan and to get me through all the ‘mine fields’ of life when I was a teenage boy.)

As we sailed under that huge Golden Gate Bridge, it felt like the bridge lifted a heavy load off our shoulders. On our starboard side, the warehouses down next to the bay had, “WELCOME HOME” painted on their roofs. On a roof of a building that was located on an island on our portside, there was a sign that read, “Thanks for a job well done.” There was no Welcome Back on it. You see, that island was Alcatraz, the Federal Penitentiary. They, like the fellow in the Bible while in Hell lifted up his eyes and said, “Let me go and tell my brothers that this place is real and for life.”

After a big tugboat eased the U.S.S. Hershey into its dock, we left that troopship for buses that hauled us over the Oakland Bay Bridge to the Navy base on Treasure Island. There is quite a difference between the Treasure Island Naval Base in San Francisco Bay and the Treasury Island we had left in the South Pacific. We were in a big building, maybe a gym, just waiting, when someone came over the P.A. system and made a speech to us. “Welcome back, fellows: I understand some of you may not have had noon day lunch. Well, we have some left over for you. By the way, what would you men like to drink?” Imagine our surprise when we realized we all yelled, “Fresh Milk!” That’s right, cow juice, Bovina cocktail). As often as we had planned to and had stolen the Officer’s whiskey and beer, the truth came out, fresh milk is what we wanted. Just goes to show we were not nearly as tough and wild as we thought we were.

“All you boys that have your dress blues can go out on liberty tonight if you wish and we will be getting your thirty day leave paper ready for you to pick up tomorrow.” I don’t remember how I got my dress blues from home, but I had them. I don’t remember who all was with me that night, but we checked into a hotel in San Francisco and we all took care of a little financial business. Some used telephones and some of us had to settle for the telegraph. We then had supper and ordered a beer to drink with it.

The next morning back in a little West Texas town, an old pickup pulled up to the local produce house and an old fellow in faded blue overalls got out to buy a hundred pound sack of laying mash (hen feed). With gasoline and tires rationed, you didn’t dare go to town except for business. While in town though, you might as well check on the bus station at the drug store, nothing at the train depot—he checked there when he crossed the tracks coming into town, Also, he might as well pick up the mail, it would be another couple of hours before it would be delivered out on the route. You see, they hadn’t heard from their son C. L. in 3 or 4 weeks and well, he just might be…

As he went into the post office, he met Banker Frank Spring coming out. “Good Morning, Mr. Vestal. C.L. got back to the states last night.” “Oh, how do you know?” was his question. Banker Spring answered, “I’ve just wired him the money to come home on.” “Did you have enough, did you have enough?” Daddy asked as he was pulling out his billfold. “Oh yes, most all the boys have a savings account just for that. Of course, if one didn’t, we would make him a loan,” banker Spring explained. That somehow or another, the boys could wire home for money and save having to stand in a pay line and get started home a little sooner. Daddy didn’t need to come up with any extra money, but how much would you be willing to spend to get your son home those last few miles from a war?

Now out in San Francisco as we were checking out of the hotel the clerk said, “Vestal, you are to pick up your money at the Bank of California, go down and get yours.” I got my money and bought me a fancy black leather jacket that had a zipper that ran on an angle down the front. All well dressed sailors had one to wear in place of their navy Pea coat. Of course it wasn’t regulation and sometimes they would get into trouble with some nasty S.P. Since the navy is always ‘hurry up and wait’, I also purchased a little black suitcase that I could sit on while waiting. I still have it.

We went back to the Navy base for our leave papers. Since the leave papers were handed out alphabetically, I was at the foot of it. What a slow line!!! Three editions of a San Francisco paper came out while I was waiting. The Wop got his leave papers early. “How did you get them so quick?” we asked. “I just went up there behind the desk and said, “Since you got to give me my leave papers anyway, just let me have them now and I’ll be out of your way.” It pays to be big sometimes, that system didn’t work for any of the rest of us. There were a bunch more fellows besides us that came in on the U.S.S. Hershey getting leave.

Lott came up to me with, “Say Frionie, don’t you go somewhere close to Amarillo?” “Yes, why?” “I just saw one old boy buy a ticket on the railroad round trip to Amarillo for $56.00. That’s a good deal and they come here on the base in the morning and pick you up on the train.” Somehow that hit me hard. I realized for the first time in months and months that I had to make a decision about myself. The Navy was out of this and didn’t care. I bought a ticket on that train. I finally had my papers, 30 day leave and 7 day travel time. I spend the night on the Navy base then got on the train the next morning. As I was walking to the train, my sea bag on my left shoulder and my little black suitcase in my right hand, my new leather jacket tucked under my arm as an S.P. slapped me with his billie-club, “That’s right, sailor, keep that jacket under your arm and you’ll get home with it.” “Yes, sir,” I replied not so graciously, but I’m going HOME!

Continue next week.

C.L. Vestal