During the 50 year commemoration of the Normandy landings in 1944 the news media illustrated attendance by officialdom, veterans, and civilians alike at ceremonies in France. I received a letter with press releases from a Norwegian lady visiting Normandy during the commemoration. I had known her as a young girl in 1938 in Odda where I grew up. It came to mind, again, that it had been my particular good fortune to be a prisoner at the time of the worst part of that war at sea, the "Wolf Pack" operations by the German submarines against allied shipping carrying war supplies to England.

A part of that fortune at the end of that war, was the opportunity to emigrate to the U.S., to take my chances in a new world. Hence, it seems fitting to append a recollection of my first visit to my birth place.

Writing in this narrative about the grade school chum not taking his pills at the work camp at Settat, in Morocco, opened memories from my first visit to the home-town, Odda, in 1971 after an absence of 31 years. I learned that Elias had married and settled in England. It briefly came to mind whether the same "fate" would have been mine if the Braganza had not foundered and I had returned to England...

The first visit to Norway, 1971;

(w/briefs from later visits):

I had left Raleigh, N.C. for New York to board a TWA charter flight to Frankfurt Am Main, Germany, with a 5 hour layover there. Arrival at Frankfurt was about 8AM. At the ticket area for the Scandinavian Airline, wishing to confirm my flight to Norway, a lady attendant stated she could get me on a plane to Copenhagen, right away, which would bring me to Norway earlier. I had already checked my baggage for the scheduled later flight, through Copenhagen, expecting my brother to meet me, ( at Bergen, Norway). I was apprehensive about keeping my schedule. The lady attendant was trying to help me avoid the 5 hour wait at Frankfurt. She spoke Norwegian as she checked my tickets. I felt somewhat nonplused as she switched as easily to English when I tried to thank her in Norwegian and explain my plans.

From some tourist description of Frankfurt I recalled that once there, one was supposed to spit in the river Main, which I did. It was Sunday morning as I walked towards the river. Spotting a large ad mural for IBM, my employer back in the U.S. of A., on the upper part of a tall building was pleasing.

In a park-like setting near the river two fellows were sleeping on the ground, one waking up taking a swig of beer, then falling backwards again. There were several bottles around them. I was reminded of the drinking crew of the Ringulv again at Safi in Morroco. -Would I meet with the same in Norway?.

Ordering late breakfast at the railroad station my German was rusty and the Germans preferred answering in English. The station area seemed to be a Sunday morning gathering place for numerous Turkish men, well publicized "foreign" workers, because of a lack of German workers.. one would note, too, the apparent Mediterranean custom of only men congregating. (After the unification of East and West Germany foreign workers and families became a publicized problem for the government). Tired of sightseeing I was happy to board the Scandinavian Airline System plane for Norway, with a stop at Copenhagen... I was sleeping most of the way to Kristiansand, southernmost in Norway, first contact but did not feel any need to run down and kiss the ground. Continuing on to Bergen one of the Stewardesses answered me in English as I tried to speak Norwegian again. Were this a cue it slipped by me. Speaking English I told one Stewardess it was my first visit to Norway since before the war. She didn’t seem impressed, probably was busy; making ready for end of duty, perhaps... There were just a few passengers and I was left mostly alone.

A younger brother, Einar and his wife Ingrid, met me at the airport after a five hour trip by car from Odda. (When I lived there this trip was 12 hours overnight by passenger/cargoboat). Einar was about 14 when I left. After sort of warming to each other we started on the trip towards Odda. Ingrid noted I spoke like the people in Oslo, quite different than the dialect in Odda. I was trying to talk about the route we were taking, which because of a new suspension bridge over a sound together with a new ferry service after the war, enabled this trip by car from Odda to Bergen, and return.

Einar, as if on cue from Ingrid, in a round-about way wondered if I had forgotten the Mother-tongue He also mentioned my letters over the years had been difficult to read both because of penmanship and my particular brand of Norwegian. I tried to make a humorous tale of my encounter with the Stewardesses, wishing I could say, -"you ain’t heard nothing yet". We stopped overnight at a place called Nordheimsund, (North-home-sound), where my friend Finn and I had visited in the old days on dancing outings because girls from Bergen would visit there...(An outing was a drawn-out affair, leaving Odda by boat Saturday, go to the dance, stay overnight, and catch another boat back to Odda Sunday morning).

I was up and out, before six o’clock this first full day in Norway looking the place over, recalling visits there before the war. I discovered also, which I found hard to get used to, no businesses opened till around 8:30, at the earliest, not even gas stations...

We arrived at Odda early in the afternoon after a necessary half hour ferry ride on the way. I wasn’t exactly fighting for composure as we drove through the town; a feeling of equanimity was not overwhelming, either. only strangers seemed to be around as we passed through the town center, which observation I kept to myself. Einar pointed out some changes but for the most part I hardly remembered what was there before.

Their house was situated not too far from what had been our first rest stop on the way up to the cottage we built in the 30’s. After a while, apparently noticing a restlessness Ingrid mentioned there was a soccer match at the stadium about ten minutes below; I might meet someone? Declining I suggested I’d take their young son, Andre 5, for a walk needing to stretch my legs. -He wouldn’t be asking many questions...

Starting up the path to the old cottage I partly carried Andre for a while, climbing to test my legs. Viewing the town below I was as if sounding the changes I observed; Andre couldn’t really tell me much. Wondering, after traipsing around half the world in a sense, making a new life in America was I now uncomfortable meeting my family and old friends again? Returning to the house Ingrid stated she was about to send Einar after us.

Our other brother Claus ‘phoned after supper to wish me welcome to Norway. It was our first talk in 31 years. I said he sounded formal asking him: "Are you standing too?". But this attempt at humor was lost, likely because of my Norwegian. He and Kirsten would stop by the next evening, to let me rest...

Early next morning, Einar and Ingrid still asleep, I set out up the mountain for the Solbu cottage having been told that my old friend Erik was there. The same winding, ever climbing, path was still there after many years’ usage. That time of the year the sun was already bright in the sky at about 5 o’clock as I savored being on old grounds; (use of military 24 hour time was standard). I stopped to take a drink of water from a little brook in a glade one crossed between the second and third usual rest stops, like in the old days.

I had been worried about the last 200 yards, because of the steepest climb up a narrow grassy, rocky, ledge sloping away from the mountain-side. There was a steep fall-off. Erik had installed cabling, heavy wire between trees on the down-side of the rising ledge in case one slipped. (Winter time the climb was usually possibly only by making "steps" in the snow on the way up, taking care not to slip on the way down).

After just an hour from Einar’s house I was pleasantly surprised, although a little winded, to be standing on the ledge beside the cascading little waterfall which gave the place it’s name, Fossen, (water-fall). I was looking down upon the town, about 2200 feet below, as I had done innumerable times; (en foss= a waterfall; fossen= the waterfall)

A little while later I knocked on the door of the old cabin, hearing Erik rummaging inside. "Come in", Erik answered. Knocking again, harder, Erik mumbled something and came to open the door. "So you finally got here, I was waiting for you yesterday", as if I had a duty to be there. And, noticing my bare feet: "don’t they have any shoes over there in ‘Uniten’, you were gone for over thirty years and come back here barefoot?". The last distance up to the cabin was through a swampy stretch, shoes and socks often removed. His hand shake and big smile sufficed after all these years; (men hugging was the exception even within the family). Erik was about 4-5 years older than I, lean and tall, almost haggard. He was the typical lone bachelor. He was just having breakfast.

After coffee, the two old friends sat outside, just talking, as if it were just a casual visit. But Erik soon found a way to sort of sneak in the obvious question of why I had not returned before now. And there seemed to be a special interest on his part. When leaving with Ringulv for New York Erik had asked me to try to look up his older brother who had ‘disappeared" in Brooklyn, some years before. I had written back to Erik before sailing from New York that I had indeed tried to locate Erik’s brother through some former Seamen I had met through my own brother, Leif, working and living ashore.

I was surprised to learn there was a considerable group of former Seamen and friends meeting occasionally at the Norwegian Seamen’s Church in Brooklyn. They did indeed know about Erik’s brother but he had apparently moved recently, also changed his name. I wrote back to Erik that my time there was too short to be able to do much by myself. Erik had explained that his brother had broken with his father for some reason and that his father was afraid time was running out. Outside the cabin these questions came up again with Erik reiterating his father’s sorrow over that condition.

His father, of course, had since passed away, as had my father. It was difficult to explain to Erik that it was almost just a happenstance that I was able to find out anything about his brother; Brooklyn, for example, had just as many inhabitants as all of Norway. Because of the similarity of his brother’s absence Erik seemed to find the right to direct his questions about my absence all these years. Indeed, he found a way to recall several talks with my father over my "disappearance", as if justifying comparison. It seemed he only half accepted my explanation about my desire to go to school, almost as if this was not a valid reason by itself. This talk and questions from Erik should have warned me about questions and vague feeling of reluctance from my own family to accept reasoning about my decision not to "come back".

Three or four hours went by as the two old friends sort of compared notes, Erik seemingly just half believing what I had to relate. He made note of my difficulty with the mother-tongue but accepted it, one of the few who did first off. I was vaguely aware of a sort of a distance, not readily accepting it. Perhaps I was subconsciously trying to evade what was to be known later as emotional stress, meeting family and friends after three decades.

Another cottage, "Steinbu", (stone hut), must be mentioned. It was built under a huge bolder, about 20 feet high, the inside, sort of lop-sided A-frame type. one could only stand up along the right side wall, sleeping room for just two, on the left coming in. It was about a stone’s throw below Solbu. The builders were Almar and Arvid. The slanting ceiling and walls were paneled piece-meal like; a little wood burning stove for heating and cooking just inside the door. Arvid, tall and sinewy like his Swedish father, was an avid hunter. The game was snowshoe hares, ptarmigan, and ruffled grouse. Almar was shorter but squarely built. Shortly after the occupation the cabin was "‘raided". The Germans "discovered" a rifle and a shotgun hidden in the slanting ceiling. The two friends had to spend some time confined. Arvid was sure someone had turned them in to the Germans.

Almar suffered a slight heart attack in -70 and no longer visited the place. Erik noted that Arvid no longer visited the cottage, except on occasional day visits. on my last visit to Odda, in -91, Arvid had suffered s slight stroke and was unable to talk when I visited him at hospital for people no longer able to care for themselves. Almar had passed away in the mid eighties.

Erik and I were reluctant to end the meeting, but I had to get down to be ready to meet Claus and Kirsten, her for the first time. As I came back down to Einar’s house I was given a little talking to by my younger brother. They had figured I had gone to Fossen to visit Erik but I was, after all, not likely used to this kind of climbing. Erik had told me my brothers were not used to the climb either, now that they both had cars; cottage visits rare...

Claus and Kirsten came after supper. They were both dressed up for the occasion. I kidded them about this and told them Einar had "dressed me down" for going to Fossen alone. But the idiom was lost in my Norwegian, and funnier yet as I tried to explain. It seemed to break the ice, though; Ingrid thought she had to add I was OK, even if I sounded like an American. Kirsten told me she was a little concerned meeting the "famous" older brother; and this also helped bring the meeting down to a family level. During later visits I would always stay with Kirsten and Claus, somehow forming a quiet, lasting, bond perhaps different in scope than with my other brothers. After a couple of days I was pleasantly surpassed when our older sister Aslaug and daughter Aase-johanne came to visit.

Aslaug was 12 years older than I. I was apprehensive, but after the first hug things were OK. Our Uncle Kris had visited from New York a few years before and Aslaug understood about any problems with the language. (Hugging in public was not usual even among family members. Accompanying Kirsten to her place of work once, taking the bus, I gave her a hug as we parted in view of the people on the bus. Kirsten stated there would be talk about this. Sure enough, Claus laughingly asked me the next day if I was showing off. Kirsten had been seen hugging a stranger).

I reminded Aslaug about the first time I had seen a picture of my brother-in-law Paul, now passed away, that I had exclaimed he was bald. Aslaug squeezed my arm and smiled at my bald head. We had a nice family reunion a few days before she and Aase-johanne had to return, Aase-johanne to her job and family, about a day and half’s travel by bus, boat, and buses again including a couple of ferries. It was a good feeling that they had traveled that far to greet me.

Kirsten and Claus had a daughter Eli and son Jon Claus. Both of them spoke excellent English and would help me over rough spots when I would be looking for a word in Norwegian. Our fellow "Odding" Finn must be included with any mention of Erik and I together. He was just about one year older than I and we probably were, because of this, somewhat closer than were Erik and I. I used to call Finn’s mother, "mother Hansen"; she had a small milking type stool in the kitchen where I would sit waiting for Finn to get ready.

Mrs. Hansen was confined to the hospital with hardening of the arteries. Finn traced me by -phone on a visit to Claus’s house and came to fetch me to sort of make a pilgrimage to Mrs. Hansens’s bedside. I was waiting outside in the road as Finn drove up. He nodded as he drove by and went inside the house. Coming out again he stated he thought I was just another stranger; he would never have recognized me. Driving to the hospital for older people he explained that being told about my arrival: -"she has talked almost of nothing else". The meeting was emotional, dampened only be Mrs. Hansen’s drifting memory.

(In -38 and -39 I had accompanied Finn, his sister Aase and fiancée Bernhard, who was John Andersen’s brother and John’s fiancée Irma, and John and Bernhard’s sister Gerd with fiancée Mikkel, a next door neighbor, as a group on Easter vacations. That time we traveled about an hour by taxi to a mountain lake where we were met by a mountain farmer who came across the ice on the lake with horse and sled for our luggage while we skied for a couple of hours with him back across the lake and climbed up to the farm area.)

A particular incident, and a lesson learned, involved one of my grade school mates, Ola. He would walk to work 6:30 week-days. I met him one morning and walked with him on his way to the factory; he worked in the mechanical shop. It was our first meeting and he seemed almost reluctant to talk.

But after a little while he turned to me and asked: "-are you sorry?". The question puzzled me, at first, until I understood that Ola actually inquired whether I was sorry that I had left Odda. Ola had worked in the same mechanical shop since he was 15. I came to realize, quite slowly, that to my old friends I likely was a very different person whereas I apparently thought I could just sort of take up where I had left, some 31 years before.

Thomas Wolfe’s words, -you can’t go home again, came to me as if an experience. As an aside, I would often mention this seeming distance I felt had developed during the war years, unable to get back home, when someone inquired why it had taken me so long, 30+ years, to return for a visit to Norway.

(I revisited Odda the year Ola retired at 67, (1986), having worked in the same mechanical shop for 50+ years. I visited him and his wife Asta regularly to have coffee and Asta’s waffles. We talked often about climbing up to a high mountain pasture to’ go trout fishing, Ola knew I was an avid fly fisher. But this never materialized and, as already noted, Ola was to pass away, possibly from stomach cancer, in 1991).

A couple of days after meeting Ola I called on his mother still living next to where we had lived, pleading she let me in because there were nothing but strangers around. She welcomed me, introduced me to her daughter-in-law, son Alfred’s wife. There were also three daughters in the family. She stated I hadn’t changed all these years, except: -"where is your beautiful, wavy, hair!". We had a good laugh when I said I had left it in North Africa. She couldn’t imagine I had suffered any. (Meeting Alfred the next day he said I had ‘made’ his mother’s day by calling on her).

On my way downtown from that visit I turned down a road leading to the river Opo, (don’t know about the name). I had been an avid fisherman during my early years. That time there were certain sections where everyone could enjoy fishing; the best sections and pools had always been ‘owned’ by, or leased to, the Fishing Club.

The Boy and the Salmon:

A bridge crosses the river at the beginning of a long pool, the current fast and rolling because the river drops about three feet over a long stretch above the bridge. Watching the fast moving water from the bridge the memory of a twelve year old lad fighting a three foot salmon came back, perhaps the reason for walking down to the bridge. (The river dropped about 200 feet over it’s mile length from the lake to the fjord).

I had made a three-section rod from a 12 foot bamboo pole, with ferrules, line guides, a reel wound with 30 pound test braided line, using a 6 foot steel leader. Stationing myself at the edge of the water just above the bridge, marking the beginning of this long pool belonging to the game club, I let my hook with a couple of fat worms drift way down into the pool hoping for a big trout. I had caught a fifteen inch just the week before.

But this salmon took my bait. Not realizing how big it was I grabbed the rod with both hands, now more scared than excited, just following the fish thrashing about on top of the water fighting me and the line, probably 60-70 feet down the river. The about 9 inch wide tail of this salmon appeared huge ; my friends got quite an earful later.

A man living just above the river came running to give me a hand, stating he had seen me take the fish from above the bridge. Just as he took the rod the hook tore loose from the salmon, a piece of his lip still on the hook. By the time he came down I was out over my knees into the roaring river, likely would have followed in, just holding onto rod and line with both hands not skilled enough to play the fish.

I told my father about the big fish. He wasn’t sure if he heard right about my salmon. However, coming from work the next day he called me and took me severely to task. The man trying to help me with the fish had told father the whole story. Seems I can still feel the hold father had on my neck as I had to promise if I ever tied into a fish like that, alone, I was to let go of the rod, until I learned to play a fish.

On another visit, some years later, I brought two flyrods with me hoping to fish the river again. The trouble was that the entire Opo now was taken over by the local fishing club. Members had to put in 20+ hours of work, per year, at a hatchery to be considered in drawing of lots for the many fishing sections, rotating daily. I was able to fish with one of the old-timers one day. Claus had spoken with him and he remembered me; but only one rod at a time was permitted in the water per section. The fenced off factory abutted the river at this particular section. The Chief Engineer, (called over-engineer ), also an avid flyrodder came down to watch. A two foot salmon came up, "rolled" after a fly, but missed. "Oh, that’s a shame", he exclaimed. They were amused when I indicated I had enjoyed my thrill, wondering if I could have held the fish with only a 3 kilo test leader: "Let him get bigger for someone else".

But, back to the first trip:

Charles, our youngest brother, called from Sweden unable to come west. He told Einar to drive to Oslo, about eight hours. Charles would order round-trip air tickets for me from Oslo to Stockholm. Einar had a fairly new Peugeot, was a fairly new driver. Driving out along the fjord the roadway was narrow and twisting. Ingrid was not sure as I offered to take over as we started up the road to get up the mountain in order to proceed over the famous Vidda, but Einar was more than happy with that. Once up on top Einar thought I was inviting the sheriff because of our speed; Ingrid and Andre were sleeping now. Jokingly I told Einar the sheriff couldn’t touch my American license... We had been up early. Einar likely was tired, accepting my statement, he too fell asleep and we made good time right over the plateau and down to Oslo.

Charles was teaching vocational arts to delinquent boys, 12 to 16 years old, for the Swedish government. His wife Assa was a special nurse at an old people’s home. Charles was but nine years old when I left, now 41. We had been close because I, as the oldest, had been given to look after him when he was a toddler. We were celebrating a little before supper. He was little annoyed over my "language" and also felt he had a right to reproach me for not returning when our parents were still alive.

Apparently we were both agitated and Assa called -"boys I want you at the table now!", in order to tone us down. Charles discounted my story about the Navy requirement as more an excuse. Fortunately Ingrid called from Oslo. Knowing Charles’ mindset she had called a cousin who had been sailing during the war. He, at last, confirmed my story. Assa and I feigned sighs of relief indicating we could enjoy visiting now, getting Charles to laugh with us. I only had a couple of days...

Stretching our legs after supper we visited his "class-room". The vocational school and living quarters for the students comprised several buildings in a farm setting.

Their home was a house within this farm setting. Some of his "students" also included youngsters brought to and fro class under guard, criminals already. His job was to teach them small engine repair, some electric appliance repairs, and some mechanical workshop familiarity. A type recidivism was experienced, Charles explained, where discharged youngsters would return, likely from broken homes; Charles becoming like a stand-in father figure.

On our way from Oslo back to Odda Ingrid had accepted my driving but was annoyed I didn’t share her enthusiasm over the scenery as we rode through the mountainous areas. She had to laugh when I noted there wasn’t much of a choice, drive safely on "this narrow two-lane roadway", or watch the scenery. She appeared miffed when I tried to explain I had experienced higher mountains and beautiful scenery where I lived as well. -"it just couldn’t be like Norway!"; she was adamant...

Day after our return a reporter from the local newspaper came for an interview with me, after a couple of phone calls. She stated that the year before she had interviewed two sisters I knew who had moved to America from Odda after the war. They were on a visit from Modesto, California. (I visited them there when I worked in nearby San Jose). The reporter seemed to feel it was almost my duty to be interviewed.

We got off to a shaky start because she asked what I thought ought to be done with a large v-form wooden structure, about 100 by 60 yards, three stories with a high peaked roof. It had been used as the town hall, housed the movie theater, four class rooms and offices for the high school, and also as living quarters for several families. It also housed the town library, offices for the district doctor. It had been abandoned for some time, was now used partly as a warehouse, some people "living" there now were "ner-do-wells". It had been the Grand Hotel before the turn of the century, at least years before anyone’s memory now.

The present movie theater had been the old dining room and had about a three foot high carved wood "belt", depicting people in rustic settings, about 15 feet up on the wall around the whole room, ceiling very high. The state antiquarian in Oslo wished to keep the famous wood carving intact, apparently considered an art treasure, hence the reason for the building still standing. Because of my job as a safety engineer felt a need to note that the building presently constituted a serious fire hazard. Should a fire occur, started by the people now living there, with a January north storm coming down the fjord, the heat of the mass of fire could easily consume much of the downtown area. Cautioning the reporter not to mention that lest someone got the idea but at least report this to the fire marshall; she thought he was aware. She seemed to take offense about keeping a serious hazard... (Some years later the building was torn down).

The reporter knew that I had worked at Cape Kennedy in Florida as a safety engineer. (Some months later, at home in North Carolina, I received the paper with the article.

I thought she had failed to understand my description of the size of the Apollo Moon Rocket and the huge Vehicle Assembly Building, (VAB), where four 360 foot, (100 meters) Apollo rockets could be housed at one time. I had sent Einar newspaper clippings with extensive pictures of the rocket when I worked at the Cape ). Whenever questions arose about relative size and distances in America I would attempt to explain that the distance from New York to San Francisco was about the same as from New York to London. It seemed that this, as a concept, was not readily accepted. Kirsten, probably more to kid me at times would say: "American Bluff" to some of my explanations.

Kirsten did not like me to go downtown and have coffee and breakfast at a little cafe, opening at 8 o’clock. "It looks like I don’t feed you", she said. Probably 75% of the homes were built at varying levels above the center of the town, hence downtown really was...

At a cafe one morning, anyway, a waitress bringing my coffee and hard roll with coldcuts, a usual breakfast, introduced herself saying I should know her, just a little younger than me; she had gone to school with Einar. She wanted to know if I knew her couple of years older brother who had "gone" to Canada, and if I had met him... I hoped she just wished to talk about her brother rather than expecting I should know him because he, too, was "over there", as it were.

Claus advised that another individual, Hans, who had signed on Ringulv as a deckboy and went through the camps in North Africa had returned after the-war and was living there. I hailed him on the street one day; he had heard I had arrived for a visit and was aware that I was living in Kirsten’s "Uniten". We compared notes and pleasantries, I believe. Hans was a couple of years my junior, his brother was one of my classmates. We talked about getting out of North Africa; he had signed on another Norwegian ship still there, the diesel motorship "Nyhorn", (Newhorn), a 10.000 tons modern ship which the French had not expropriated.

I enjoyed walking around and visit friends, especially John Andersen and his wife Irma. His brother Bernhard had married Finn’s sister Aase and was visiting from Kristiansand Their sister Gerd had married Mikkel. I made a special visit to John’s mother Bertha, also at the hospital. Meeting Alfred or the three sisters it seemed they were generally occupied with families and grandchildren. I was the sojourner now.

It dawned on me I was starting to look forward to getting back home, wondering if my visit was becoming old hat. We seemed to be running out of things to recall, even between us brothers. Vaguely, at chance encounters, I would wonder -were this an intrusion into their usual routine? Meeting one of Ola’s sisters, Aslaug, in town one day she stated: 11-you’re still here?", laughing as she realized a possible second meaning.

The weather was warm, in the ‘eighties’. We would motor a couple of miles out the fjord to the local swimming area. Run-off snow water in the Opo cooled the fjord at Odda proper. People were stretched out in the sun, "we have to enjoy it while we have it". I sought shadows under a tree on an air mattress when not swimming. (I remembered August months when temperature would remain below 65’F).

Claus was asked why I sought the shadows for some sleep. Kirsten said she had to tell them I was not the drinking kind; some had trouble understanding I thought it too warm in the sun. I made another trip up to the Solbu cottage to visit Erik. He noted again that my brothers rarely visited:" -they seem to run around with their cars now." Few people had cars when I lived there before the war, in fact none of our group had cars.

Digression:

-Outsider?;

During a later visit I experienced being both puzzled and amused when referred to as -a foreigner, twice, by family members yet. The first occurred when staying overnight, after a three hour bus trip including ferry, visiting a second cousin Otto on my way back to Odda after a visit to my sister at Volda. (Traveling on the western coast of Norway, three long fjords, one about 100 miles with narrow roads and mountains to cross, is almost tortuous despite the tourist attractions). I was to take a catamaran-type fast boat, a 2200 horse power engine in each hull, 4 hours to Bergen next morning. Otto noted if he had known I could have had free passage with a ocean-type fishing vessel heading for Bergen later that night; he was part owner in the vessel. I answered that I was traveling on half fare anyway, as a pensioner. He blurted out: -"but you are a foreigner!". Laughingly I reminded him I was indeed a pensioner in Norway, as he very well knew, because of my war service.

His wife was English. She now spoke pure western Norwegian after 40 years, having a little difficulty with her English. Otto had received England’s highest decoration for foreigners when as a lieutenant in command of an English Navy motor torpedo boat he sank a German light cruiser north of Bergen. Otto knew the deep-water inland waterway like the back of his hand. He and his brother Reidar had fled to England after a British raid on Maaloey, their hometown, during the war.

The second time was from my sister-in-law, Assa. (Assa’s family also was from Odda, hence she and Charles visited the hometown almost yearly from Sweden). She noted it was too bad they were not going back to Sweden when I had to leave to catch my plane at Oslo to return to the US. I could have saved the bus fare to Oslo driving there with them. When I stated, as before to Otto, that I would travel on pensioners’ half fare, she also intoned: -"but you are a foreigner now!".

She dismissed my answer about being a pensioner because of my service in the Norwegian Merchant Marine, meaning that was a long time ago. Not quite nonplused, in each case I dropped any further discussion as if their statements really did not matter. But perhaps they did...

(When visiting Arvid at the hospital, in -91, two other old friends, John Andersen and John Lekve, were also staying there. On their floor they were up and about all day, mostly in a day room, able to walk about. Anny Nilsen, -82, also had lived "next-door". She showed me pictures from the old days and from her family. She was in fine form just had trouble walking. I had sat down in a chair between the two Johns. Anny asked Lekve if he didn’t remember me, naming my brothers. Looking at me briefly John just shook his head and walked away. I turned and said hello to John Andersen, had to repeat to get his attention, stating who I was. He remembered me after a little while. (John and I had been quite close; it bothered me when he was embarrassed for not remembering me at first). He asked if I was meeting our old friend Finn, who had passed away some ten years before, a suicide. Anny quickly stated Finn was away, which satisfied John. Anny added they did not recall much, most of the time, except events from long ago. Leaving the place with mixed emotions I made no plans for a revisit. It seemed only Hans and my two brothers were left of the old group, besides Erik, now at seventy-eight still climbing to Solbu.)

Back to the first visit:

Time to leave. (Total time, leaving Raleigh and returning, for this first trip was twenty days). I journeyed to Voss by bus, then night train, sleeping compartment, to Oslo. Changing train there for the trip through Sweden, through to Denmark. (My mind is a blank about why I did not fly back to Frankfurt). I was wondering how the train was getting over the sound to Copenhagen: one remained in the railroad cars as that part of the train was rolled onto a ferry, Helsingborg in Sweden to Helsingoer in Denmark, near Hamlets’s Elsinore.

Copenhagen is on an island, Sjaelland. Continuing to the island of Lolland via bridge, then ferry again to Germany. Time seemed to slip by and I was looking forward to the sleeping compartment again through Germany and finally back to Frankfurt for the return trip to U.S. of A.

The two nights sleep on the trains, one in Norway and one in Germany, seemed as if to be "what the doctor" ordered; apparently I was both emotionally and physically tired. I recall the porter on the German train, about my age, giving me special attention, speaking rather loudly in English, I thought. I was unsure what kind of attention. It crossed my mind, the WAR was "eons" ago. Tempted to mention my Norwegian background I dropped it as being none of his business. I had no problem ordering food in German, speaking slowly. One of the younger waiters mentioned "Amerikanish" to one of the others; perhaps he expected a big tip. A younger Danish sales representative joined me. He had heard me speaking English and halting German. When I told him about my background, having sailed with the Danes for Standard Oil he broke into Danish. I begged off, speaking English. He stated he got along fine with the Germans in his business, was too young really to remember much about the war.

(I recalled speaking with young German engineers, from IBM Germany, working with them on computers going to Germany while at IBM, Kingston, New York, in -64.) After the Dane left I wondered whether both the older German and I ‘suffered’ from a bit of latent war memories, hoping I was just tired...It was a real relief getting back on the TWA flight to New York and finally on the plane back to Raleigh. I was back on the job the next day, as if I couldn’t wait to get back in my routine. Jo would relate later that for several nights I would be getting up not being sure of where I was, looking for the bathroom. But that, too, passed and it was good to be back home, getting back on the job, feeling finally at home again.

Life continues. Retirement, so far, with opportunity to continue golf, seasonal fly fishing trips to New York and ski trips to New England and New York, even North Carolina, a part of the good life....