I
t was June 1942, the month when more commercial shipping was sunk than any other time in history. Of course, I didn't know this at the time; I thought it would be really cool to ship out. I had heard the Siren's song that a footloose eighteen-yearold couldn't resist: "WANTED-Sailors for the Merchant Marine. No experience necessary. High pay. Immediate berths
of our money, precious documents, and proof of identity, either in life or death. Next, I assembled my seagoing kit. Leather-faced gloves with high cuffs would be essential for handling thorny, four-inch hawsers. I developed a particular fondness for my new yellow oi lskins, complete with a broad-brimmed sou'wester hat, for the pungent aroma they imparted to every-
constant replenishment with quarts of water and quantities of electrolyte-replacing salt tablets. Soaked with sweat, black with oil, eyes red and stinging, we were like phantoms from some Kafkaesque hell. As the days wore on, the crew sloped off until only rwo of us remained to wipe down the bunker oil tanks with rags. Situated just forward of the boiler room, the heat
I had heard the Siren's song that a footloose eighteen-year-old couldn't resist:
"WANTED - Sailors for the Merchant Marine. No experience necessary. High pay. Immediate berths on worldwide ships. "
SIGN UP TO¡DAY.'
U.S.Maritime Service 321 CHESTNUT ST.¡ PHILADELPHIA.PA.
on worldwide ships. Apply... " etc. Daily headlines and broadcasts had been reporting the domination of Hider's wolfpacks in the Battle of the Atlantic. Shipping on our eastern seaboard had come to a virtual standstill, and the campaign in Europe was desperate for supplies. Feeling patriotic, adventuresome, and immortal, I answered The Call on a hot, steamy afternoon in Baltimore, Maryland. In no time I was hustled through the red-tape, fingerprinting, and photography required to obtain seaman's papers. With their gilded print, "Seaman's Identification - US Department of Commerce," and illustrated with the golden image of a liner steaming gallantly over the main, these papers were impressive just to look at. I proudly enshrined them in a stiff, new leather wallet. These wallets were masterpieces made with clear plastic pockets and business-like compartments, all secured by a button tab. Chained to one's belt and stowed in a hip pocket, they were the inseparable keepers
thing else in the sea-bag. I was eager to embark. Hurry up and wait; no ship was available. To fill the time while waiting, I signed up for what must be one of the dirtiest jobs on earthcleaning out tankers' cargo holds. After a ship has been unloaded, its ranks are steam cleaned with high-pressure nozzles in a process called "butterworthing." After the wash water has been pumped out, a gooey residue of tar, sand, and rust clings to the bottom of the tank and must be laboriously scooped o ut with a trowel. Visualize a work site at the bottom of a cavernous, gloomy space, accessible by ladder, lit only by a shaft of sunlight coming through a small hatch some thirty feet above. Add the infernal temperature and humidity of summer sun on steel plates, and you should begin to get the picture. As each bucket of sludge was hoisted up, it would swing into the ladder, showering the wretches below with oily slop. Sweat streamed off our bodies in rivulets, requiring
in these fuel spaces made the cargo tanks seem cool by comparison. My time in purgatory finally came to an end with my assignment to a ship ready to depart. She was the Standard Oil Company's john D. Archbold, named after John D. Rockefeller's right-hand man. At the time of her launch in 1921, she was the largest tanker in the world; 572 feet long, 75 feet wide, 14,055 lbs displacement, and a speed of 10. 75 knots. The ship was under charter to the War Shipping Administration. Standard Oil had its own company union; there was no problem with my signing the Ship's Articles and joining the crew. My watch section shared a compartment furnished with half a dozen tiered bunks. When I entered, I was greeted by one of the most memorable characters of my life. "Blackie" was of medium build, with a friendly, bright smile that blazed across his swarthy face like Douglas Fairbanks in a pirate movie. He welcomed me
SS john D. Archbold