Chapter Twelve

Successful Major Break, Unsuccessful third try;

Shortly after the walk attempt the Seamen were transferred from Sidi el Ayachi to a camp not far from Marrakech. We reasoned the attempt to have the Norwegian ships’ crews sent to Portugal caused this latest transfer. The camp being a little more secure than Sidi el Ayachi. After two, three weeks in this camp I heard from one of the Greek sailor friends that he had an inkling something was afoot among the Officers, he just could not put his finger on it.

I was able to wangle another trip to Casablanca, ‘dentist again. Another possible plan had come to mind. Reidar was going to try to meet me later. The plan had been proposed by a waiter friend at a restaurant at Casablanca. I had to do some reconnoitering alone, may not even have told Reidar.

The waiter friend introduced me to a Spanish fisherman who regularly traveled with a Spanish fishing boat from Casablanca to fish near the Canary Island and on the coast of the now Western Africa, then under Spain. I treated supper one evening and cautiously inquired about a possible stow-a-way with one of the fishing boats. I was able to meet with two other fishermen the next day for further talks; it seemed promising since they trusted the waiter.

But the idea came to naught as another friend indicated the crews thought they were under scrutiny by the French Police. But it was an exciting idea while it was being contemplated, I thought later. I got the idea that these fishermen were not in favor of the present authority system in Spain and were intrigued by this Norwegian who just wished to escape to sail again, war or no war, and they just waved away any talk about money.

Reidar joined me after a few days, another dentist excuse. One day the landlady at the small out-of-the-way hotel where we were staying advised that a man working for the Police had been around asking questions. We were staying at the hotel without being registered, sleeping behind temporary screens, Reidar on one floor, I on another, getting out early in the morning before the other guests arose. This condition was not too unusual in itself because rooms were hard to get

And possibly also a way for the manager to pick up an extra room fee or two. Reidar, by the way was from Oslo the capital, and was always good company for small-town guy like me.

We were sitting at a small restaurant away from the busy section of the town, thinking our luck likely was about to run out, better get back to camp. A Frenchman came up to our table and we knew, instantly, our game was up. We had pushed our luck, so to speak. We followed him, almost lamely, to the main Police station, wondering what was in store, hoping we’d be just shipped back to the camp. That, however, was not the case, this time....

We were separated as soon as we came into the station house, almost rudely so. I was taken to a room with two detectives. One of them pointed to my name with the word, "juif". Derisively I explained -vei was road in Norwegian, -berg like in iceberg, together a farm name. He stared at me for the derision.

Serious now, some of my latest whereabouts were served up to me, including my company with the Spanish fishermen. I tried to act as circumspect as possible without tipping my hand. Just getting together with the Spanish, was too vague. Little by little, then, it dawned on me that there had been a possible major break from the camp and that Reidar and I just happened to be in Casablanca at the same time, in this case apparently at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fortunately for us, I would say again, again, and again... as I would retell the story, when we were being interrogated, and we were, somehow we told the same story. Being asked to account for why we were in Casablanca, just at this time?: -We were just tired of the dreary, confining, camp life, just wanting to sleep in a bed, have some different food, seek some female companionship...

The French seemed to nod their heads at the latter but I was almost in trouble about our sleeping arrangement. Somehow the detectives let this one slip by, we could have been in trouble and gotten our friend at the hotel in trouble. Actually, we had been specifically avoiding any girl relationships. The Police were always watching those places where one likely one did not have to register.

The interrogation took a different turn for both of us, as we discussed this later. Reidar had only been there a couple of days and they gave up on him as probably not knowing anything worth while. But they picked up on my story about female companionship right away, maybe because I was speaking French and enjoying myself, sort of trying to turn my story against me; if I was trying to ‘con’ them they challenged me, in a way. Proposing that with my knowledge of French it would be relatively simple to arrange these amenities I was seeking outside the camp, if I would cooperate and supply them -with information they seemed interested in. Neither Reidar or I was told that an escape had occurred.

But because I had hung around the fishing boats, visited onboard one of them, and had apparently been seen in their company it just dawned on me, very slowly, how the escape likely occurred. The two detectives changed tactics, stated they could arrange to get me papers to stay outside the camp, provide me with a job, I being tired of the camp life, female companion ship would be a cinch....

Surprised at having been able to string then along I just told them I did not believe they could arrange the amenities they promised. -I really did not know what they were driving at. One of the detectives pushed me up against the wall, struck me, causing my head to hit the wall. It didn’t really hurt, but as I bounced back from the wall the detective thought I was coming for him, the other detective came half out of his chair. I just laughed at them and asked if they really were so dumb as to think I would take on both of them. I was offered a chair and the detectives became friendly and said it seemed maybe I did not have any information, anyway. Another detective came in for a hushed conference, which somehow concluded the interrogation.

We were held overnight, were made almost comfortable, then told to beat it back to camp. Once there we learned that eight of the Officers had bought a Spanish fishing boat at Casablanca and just sailed it right out of the harbor as if they were going to a fishing area and motored the boat, probably 40 foot ocean sea-worthy, to Gibraltar instead.

This would have taken quite a bit of cash and I was not sure I could have been a part of it, or that I would have been asked. It also made me realize I had a close call by having a little bit of information supplied by the Greek sailor. The result was that the after the major, successful, escape by the Officers the entire group was moved again.

-to Oud Zem, Camp #5;

Ordinarily it should not be a big problem to move about two hundred people. But this was war time, gas was rationed. We enjoyed a stop on the way, apparently the camp was not ready for us, seemingly a post haste move after the break. We figured someone’s head was on the block for this slip-up. To our surprise we were allowed to take a rest by, or in, a small park adjoining a small lake. Before long all the younger fellows were in their bathing trunks, it seems for two-three hours, enjoying the swim. We were puzzled by this break on the way to the camp wondering whatever could be in store for us.

The new camp seemed to be made for tighter security. We did not really know where we were, a wooded area in the midst of which was a sizable camp setting. (As an aside, it may be noted by perusing a map of Morocco that Safi, Azemour, Settat, and Oued Zem are quite near one another, within an area of maybe 70-80 kilometers, 35-45 miles. It just seemed that we were being jerked around a bit, maps unavailable then.

It seemed at times we were some kind of a handful for the French, passed on from area to area where we became a problem; this was the fifth camp for us from Ringulv, the third for the rest of the Seamen. The buildings we were allotted were large tin-roofed barracks whose walls would admit the sand when the wind was blowing. Meals were provided standing in line, taken back to the barracks. Water was rationed to one bottle pr day pr man from a tap in the infirmary wall. An infirmary was separated from the camp proper; it seemed to be a place where armed forces people could be kept, for one reason or another. It consisted of several adobe type buildings and an infirmary section closed off from the rest of the camp by at least one double gate facing us.

Another ration, almost perennial with the French, was a wine ration, also one bottle pr day. Going back to the days at Safi it just seemed this would be a source of problems, and it was.... I always had several bottles of water on hand because I would trade water for wine, not even, but in my favor, which didn’t seem to matter.

During the second or third week of an about three months stay all of us were tested for diphtheria because of an epidemic in the area. Three of us were found to be carriers, though we were not sick with the condition. We were sequestered in one of several buildings at the infirmary, real beds with sheets and blankets, meals served in our rooms. This seemed a real treat even as we were more or less confined to the immediate area of our rooms. We thought we could hear the others on the other side of the wall.

I was being available more and more as an interpreter because some of the French did not speak English, as noted more often did not wish to. My French also nearly got me in serious trouble during an argument with some young French Navy boys while sequestered in the infirmary. The young Frenchmen would come over and engage me in discussion once they found out I spoke French. It seemed they were there on a type R & R’, (rest and relaxation). One of the French boys was from the Alsac-Lorraine district forming the border between France and Germany, and really pro-German. I was surprised at this boy’s pro-German attitude. It was an obvious attack venting his anti-English feelings because of our connection with England. (This also became an education, really, about the connection between the Alsac-Lorraine and the Germans.)

Never one to let an argument go by, I proceeded to counter his semi-enmity with a thought that possibly both Marshall Petain, World War I fame and Admiral Darlan, leaders of the French puppet government, presently sitting in the French city of Vichy, maybe were not doing the best for France.

I may even have used a treasonable reference. The young Frenchman from Alsass-Lorrain apparently promptly reported this to his superiors. Word came down there was to be no more fraternization...

I was fortunate. I came to understand much later the reason I likely got away with my denigrations about the Vichy rulers. Older French Army and Navy Officers, not ‘in tune with the new Vichy officialdom, were shifted inland and placed in charge of camps like the one where we were quartered. My charges apparently were overlooked, taken as idle talk.

After about a week we were declared free from the epidemic condition and returned to the others in the barracks. I learned that one of the older Firemen, Fridtjof who had been on the Ringulv when I joined at Odda, had just died. He had a habit of going outside the camp to a little wooded area and sleep there. I remember asking him why he sought to be alone outside night away from the barracks; no reason, just preferred to be there... He was a wiry man, about 5foot 6inches, mostly wore an old jacket and different pants, was partly toothless. Always friendly, never cantankerous when into a little wine. He never said much about his home in Norway, that I recall. I was almost surprised he was a Fireman. Lars had noted that he kept small fires under the boiler, whatever that meant but kept the steam up on his boiler nevertheless, even assisting the new Firemen we got onboard in New York.

He had a propensity for the wine, which, as noted above, was readily available. I was told that when Fridtjof did not come back for breakfast one morning they searched for him and found him in the little forest area. He had apparently contracted pneumonia and failed to, or was unable to, report his sickness. They found him just the way he had explained to me about digging a little trench around his sleeping area to keep snakes, etc, way. I did not inquire about the funeral arrangements.

Willy, mentioned in the section about Sidi el Ayachi, told me how Fridtjof was found. He passed away just after they got him back to camp. They had tried to make him comfortable on a cot just outside the barrack; Willy also noted he had attempted to talk before passing away.

The wine, as noted, was somewhat of a problem even as one bottle a day seemed less so. Some apparently saved some up, or traded their bottle of water. One young A.B. from the Tana got a snoot-full one day and started to throw his weight around in the barracks, next to the one I was in. He was big and heavyset, not easily handled or quiet on request; he knew he was king in that sense, especially so with a snoot-full. We were good friends and I entered attempting to quiet him. One of the others had already tried to knock him out. As if in a frenzy he swung at me, maybe by mistake, at least he said so afterward; he even said he was glad I managed to duck. He understood, too, that the Legionnaire type people in the camp might not tolerate problems of drunkenness.

A detachment of Foreign Legionaries in full marching gear came to a halt in our area one day, between our barrack and the infirmary. To our surprise one of their number, learning we were Norwegian, advised there was a Norwegian among them. While still in ranks, he was allowed to converse with us, our curiosity aroused finding one of our ‘own’ a Foreign Legionnaire. He was more interested in why we were there, having learned about the internment of the ships. He was noncommittal about joining the Legion. The detachment was ordered on, leaving the group wondering about the fate of this former Norwegian Seaman. Odd noted: -"talk about adventure!". Don’t recall if we even got his name. We were also wondering about reasons he could have had seeking this type of non-identity, as we understood it.

We all missed the easy life at Sidi el Ayachi, now just a memory. Not a chance to go to the dentist, etc. The seemingly tighter sequestering was foreboding. Trying not to discuss what could be in store, this moving around. Denied our Seamen’s trade both a curse and blessing?

Leaving for the unknown;

-East to Algeria:

After a stay of three months word came that we would be on the move again. Busses arrived which deposited us at the railroad station at Casablanca. While we were waiting for the train the Police Chief was making his way through the group, apparently concerned with us in his jurisdiction. Spotting Elias, Reidar, and I he greeted us and called one of his aids, or followers over. Placing his hand on my shoulder he said with a smile: "Ah, cet jeune homme et ses amis", motioning to Reidar and Elias, "il faut les garder specialment", (Ah, this young man and his friends, they will need special guarding), shook my hand with a "Bon Chance", pronounced "shance", and moved on smiling as he told his aid about our escapades. The result was that the three us got our own compartment with a young detective for a guard, the rest of the group traveling coach which became third class the next day for everyone. Apparently the Chief just wanted to make sure that the three of us were guarded while the train was in his jurisdiction.

We moved to coach with the others the next day, the guard mostly sleeping. He had a small revolver in a holster on his belt which became visible as his coat fell open. I wondered out aloud if it was worth while extricating his gun and throw it out the open window. But one of the Officers sternly told me -no antics, we’d just get all in trouble. The train stopped and waited for a while at Oujda. The group were aware of the attempt to ship Ringulv’s crew to Norway from this town. Somehow, the progress of the war seemed to make this a non-issue, as one might say today. Crossing into Algiers we stopped at the town of Tlemsen for a change of train. The scuttlebutt ‘said’ we were to proceeded to Sidi bel Abbes, about a hundred miles south of Oran. Some of us from the Ringulv were still leery...

At Sidi bel Abbes we were quartered for a couple of days at a French armory type place with a lot of Soldiers milling around, seemingly. Meals were served by young French Soldiers, recruit-types, in the open under tents. It was evident that the younger-type French Officers, were more unfriendly, and not interested in any connections with the several ship Officers. One would think there at least would be an attempt to be some civility on their part. They seemed to be eager to show they were of a new breed, Axis friendly, maybe unsure now that the war was seemed to be changing, in the spring of -42.

The young recruit-types who did the serving were friendly and interested in this group of foreigners. They believed the Seamen were to be shipped to the south, toward the Sahara Desert. As the call came to leave for a train, again, the group took up a collection for the several young Soldiers who were quite overwhelmed by the gesture. They seemed to want to warn us that we likely would not be treated too well further south, the camps there were known more as internment camps and quite confining.

This group of foreign Seamen obviously had become a distinct liability to the French officialdom in North Africa. Shuttling us from place to place appeared to be merely an excuse because of the embarrassment about the major break from Casablanca harbor in a purchased fishing boat. Whether there were reprisals against those who sold the fishing boats was never known.

Once on the move again we were still not informed of our destination. On a siding at a town called at Mascara we found ourselves within talking distance of the passengers on a northbound train, stopped on the adjoining track. They became interested in the different-looking group of all men, lowered their windows for questions. No one seemed to want to speak English. I was happy to advise them of our condition as former ALLIED Seamen now called ‘political’ prisoners, on the way southward. (We never learned who termed us political prisoners, we were just told some place that is what we were. Internee, dictionary-wise refers to prisoner of war, or detained enemy alien). After a while one of the French Officers chaperoning’ our group came by and told us to close the windows; I had been enjoying the chance to inform, as it were...

Southward again we passed by the town Saida. Despite the Sidi bel Abbes respite we felt seedy looking. Moral remained low. The train chugging along we were introduced to more arid, mountainous, surroundings...

Mecheria,

Camp #6:

We finally arrived and ‘debarked’, detrained now, at Mecheria, about 200 miles south of Oran. To us, this seemed like part of the Sahara except for the low barren mountains around the area; but sand and sand everywhere... Security was the tightest we had experienced. The camp was surrounded by 10 foot high brick walls, barracks, about 70 by thirty feet, with two-tiered bunks. The guards were all Arabs, a rag-tag looking group never without their rifles. The uniforms’ consisting seemingly of anything they had to wear. The barracks enclosed a court yard.

We were to deal mostly with a semi-official Arab, apparently confined there himself because of some anti-French, anti-colonial activity. This was all unofficial information I scraped up by being nosy and unofficial interpreter. The food was brought to the barracks in large containers, the main dish being braised mutton that had to be ‘parceled’ out, which duty fell to me because the Arab in charge chose me as an intermediary. Arab type rye bread and cous-cous were side dishes.

The memory of the first meal was that after parceling out the braised mutton the last piece was half a head, eye still in the socket, my appetite was gone. Oscar noted my predicament, took the head half and said I could have half his portion the next day. By that time I was hungry enough to eat whatever it was. The others gamely volunteered to take the half head in turn.

After we more or less settled down in our new ‘digs’ I had long daily talks with this Arab. It was clear by his bearing and manners he was quite different than the ordinary other Arabs doing the guard duty and chores around the camp. I mentioned these talks to our Chief Mate and Chief Engineer who thought it would be OK, we had nothing of interest to anyone,, anyway.

Some thirty years later, in New York, I still had this Arab’s name and address on a piece of stationary in an English-French dictionary. I often wondered if this man was involved in the ‘uprising’ resulting in the separation from France of the former N. African colonies, especially the hostilities in the ‘state’ of Algiers. There was no occasion for any further connections. It might have been a nice place to visit, after the war, but one could easily see that the Arabs were dissatisfied, to put it mildly, with Europeans as a bad memory.

Those of us on the younger side generally would look to some of the Officers and take our cues. We were all in the same boat, as it were. The weariness of this sixth camp, for us of the Ringulv, was aggravated by the very form of our camp enclosure. The attitude of the Arab guards was tested by holding a hat on a long stick over the high wall; it was fired on immediately as if the Arabs wished to show that they meant business. It also proved that the guards acted more or less on their own, almost without supervision. The French Officers seemed quite indifferent to our presence.

We were allowed to play soccer on a field outside the camp, accompanied by several of the Arab guards. Once, when the soccer ball was kicked too far outside the field to suit the guards, one of them merely lifted his rifle and ‘killed’ it; and that was the end of the soccer playing. One could not really attach this to any feelings ‘for’ the Germans. Indeed, we wondered if these guard types were attuned to any other problems than those of their present condition. It seemed a paradox why they exhibited their enmity towards the Seamen group, who were also ‘captives’ of the French; it was as if these natives considered themselves less than free in their own land....

I tried to plumb this attitude during long talks with their ‘charge d’affairs’ man. I was somewhat surprised at his open discussions with me and had a feeling he was talking to me as a younger, man interested in ‘his’ people; which I was, younger and interested... His features, like his bearing, were different than the ordinary Arab, as was his western dress mode. He felt that the guards and the people working around the camp likely used the group as an excuse to went their dislike for the French and seemed uninterested in offering any excuse for their behavior... It was as he if wished to indicate this was ‘their’ country, after all.

Years later, when I lived in the U.S., during TV documentaries about Field Marshall Rommel’s drive towards Egypt, it was noted that the average Egyptian seemed to care less if the German should succeed. I recall this was in part attributable to the long English and French involvement in Egyptian affairs.

We learned there were some English POW’s in an adjoining camp area. A crew member of one of the Norwegian ships was from Nova Scotia and was transferred to the POW group. We had a common interest in the sea, fishing, maybe even the Vikings, and talked about Halifax and my first convoy; practicing my English was part of the talks.

I wangled permission to visit him, unofficially through the ‘charge d.’, and was able to glean a little more information. The English received regular POW packages through the International Red Cross, he treated me to some of the foodstuffs he was receiving now. During a short discussion with the Englishmen it was noted that a couple of their group had tried to get away, never to be seen again. I came away unsure about how the Seaman was received by the English.

Many years later when Jo and I were first married we had a landlady in Brooklyn who was from Nova Scotia. Mentioning the Seaman from Nova Scotia in the prison camp she stated she could well understand my suspicion about how he might have been received, but she did not elaborate.

A young French soldier on sick leave at the infirmary had volunteered information about two penal type camps for the Foreign Legionaries further south, one at Figuig, and the worst at Colombechar in the Sahara proper. I had visited the infirmary for a minor scrape, or abrasion, after a soccer play; an orderly was on duty at times.

During a period of toothache I received permission to travel to the nearest town to have a tooth extracted. This far inland the French apparently figured no one really would try to get away even with the renown of our group for escapes; perhaps this facet was not known. I was referred the orderly for my traveling papers and pass for the railroad. This young orderly again advised me of the penal camps further south. He seemed to indicate it would be easy to forget people who were sent to those areas. And I properly took the warning to heart, accepting the advise as friendly; he couldn’t possibly know our background of escape attempts...

This camp, at Mecheria, which also turned out to be our last, was in an area ringed by low, bare, mountains a part of the Atlas Mountains. I recalled that on one of our trips through these mountains in Morocco, in the mid-winter time frame, there was snow at the railroad sidings even as some of the Arab kids were running around shoe-less.

Gus, the Swedish bosun, decided to leave for Sweden, a neutral country, courtesy apparently of a Swedish Consulate. This was arranged through the officials at the camp after notification that this was an avenue open to him as a neutral. Because it still would be cold in Sweden I gave Gus a cardigan type, woolen, sweater with real silver buttons which my cousin had knitted for me, hoping he would keep it till he got to Sweden. Oscar was more concerned about whether he would get there at all with all the war going on in Germany. Also, Gus had been away from Sweden for almost a generation...

But Oscar was to pass away shortly after. He got sick, it became pneumonia; it was the end of my friend. He was buried in this far off country called Algiers, the final toll after a sometimes hard living life. It was a personal loss to me because I could always turn to him for advise. I remembered him too as a most caring person, even when it came to animals. I recalled when we were at Safi Oscar had obtained a puppy and he was like a different person caring for this little thing; it was something of his own.

A Norwegian minister from the Norwegian Seamen’s Church in the city of Algiers officiated at Oscar’s funeral. My attempt to counsel my friend and mentor, Oscar, about his drinking, ever so innocently while we were at Casablanca and Safi, came back to me at the grave side, like remorse... Quietly I rationalized it was well meant; -good, old, age-old, ability to rationalize, also came to mind...

The radio that had kept us informed at Sidi el Ayachi was still with the group; the French seemed not to mind at all.

Our lifestyle continued at a slow pace. Some evenings a group from one of the ships invited me to play poker, not the kind practiced at Sidi el Ayachi. The group seemed to have an amount of Norwegian pennies at hand, explaining this was a part of their pastime on their ship, as a group. The ever present wine was at hand, which reminded me of the recently departed Oscar. The frequency of drinking had subsided.

But one evening, after a round of teaching me how to play, the fellow who occupied the top bunk came rolling out of the bunk almost crushing me sitting on the edge of my bunk talking to the neighbor. He was surprised I had so little interest in poker as a pass-time assuring me it was unusual for the top bunkie to imbibe, after we helped him back up into his bunk. He was a big fellow, we were surprised I was none the worse having cushioned his likely fall to the floor. The fellow’s taking an extra amount of wine was blamed on the part boredom apparently slowly getting into the group at this time. Being "kept" was not part of our calling...

North Africa Invaded!:

One morning in October, about 4 months into our stay, everyone streamed out into the courtyard: -North Africa, Morocco and Algiers, were being invaded by the American-British Naval and Army forces aided by their Air Forces!. The radio was not confiscated. Camp officials informed us to await further developments; apparently the outcome was never in doubt. Thoughts about what the future might bring came and went.

"If quiet anticipation ever exists this must be it", I thought. Wild celebrations generally are not typical in the Scandinavian nature. We just seemed to stand around and discuss the possible future; there was still a war going on.... This traipsing around from camp to camp among foreign people and their customs, in and out of jail, even, was it finally going to end? It would be enough to fill a book? But where and when one would find time for that came, as a thought, and was just as quickly discarded. Perhaps no one would believe, nor even be interested. It seemed that everyone had experienced enough troubles of their own during this reign of lost ordinary sense in Germany. I remembered the discussions with the German Jewish woman who taught French at Sidi el Ayachi, (forty-ish, hence quite old). She put me somewhat at a disadvantage asking about Norwegian literature during a talk about languages. Mentioning Henrik Ibsen and others I likely, at that point, could not offer much in the way of a discourse though....

One of the crew who kept a diary boasted he even would show his wife, back in Norway, a scar of a minor(?) venereal disease when he returned. I discussed this with Odd, Oscar was no longer around, but Odd just shrugged his shoulders: the life at Sidi el Ayachi as a narrative about people from all over Europe thrown together... A diary would have to wait.

I surmised that my friend who kept the diary was much older than I, married and all that, had lots more experience. I couldn’t even fathom being married and recalled my almost fright at my girl friend’s talk about getting engaged before I left Odda. Hence, I put the thought of writing anything, "on the back burner", -which expression I was to learn, much later. I wondered, too, whether at this point I ought best to borrow from an expression from my mother, whenever she met with something imponderable: "-it is way over my head and far into the minister’s", -from a time when the minister likely was the most learned in the county.

A few days later word came down that our group was being shipped to Oran as soon as train and cars were available. And almost unceremoniously we were on the way. It seemed as if the officials at the camp, whoever they were, now couldn’t wait to get these ‘Allied’ Seamen off their hands.

The U.S. Army officials in charge of the dock areas at Oran were surprised at our arrival and we were housed temporarily in a couple of large cargo storage sheds inside the fenced-in dock area, now under guard by American Soldiers. Norwegian consular officials came by. We just supposed that some arrangements would be made as to our future.

We were free to roam inside the confines of the harbor area and this was a treat in itself to a roamer like me. Our food was American Army food, it was "living high on the hog", compared to our camp fare. Our thoughts were to get back on a ship, go back sailing, realizing this likely would take some time. I also had plans to get to London to attend radio operator school. This plan likely took hold watching the third mate on old Ringulv operating signal lights and checking the station. In the camps we had learned about the schools started at London by the Norwegian government in order to supply needed Officers. From then on, the idea seemed to have formed; it was there and wouldn’t let go...

My plans, and future, sort of became immaterial one day, at least momentarily. Odd, Elias and I watched the unloading of 2501b bombs from an American cargo ship. The Arab winch operator lowered his sling of 6 bombs too soon, hitting the railing causing the sling to open and to spill the bombs down onto the cobblestone dock side about 20 feet below. The bombs were about 4 ft long, no vanes attached but with two rail-type bands around each for easy moving. It seemed all this was observed in the same flash of time it was realized these were live bombs, we thought, not able to move, the same thought that the ship was full of these bombs. It would have been helpful to know that the bombs were not armed, not live, but we definitely decided to go and perhaps watch some other operation. The thought also registered, slowly, we were eventually getting back into the war...

Information about the progress of the invasion the first days came to us in bits and pieces. An adjoining harbor for the French Navy which was out of bounds to us. We were told there were several Naval ships scuttled there by the French. They had declined an opportunity to join the Allied forces.

A fort situated about two hundred feet above the Naval harbor resisted the invasion till they were shelled from Naval ships, after which they hoisted a white flag. (After the war I learned that the battleship North Carolina was part of the operation in North Africa).

U.S. Marines apparently were dispatched to take over the fort. We were told that as the Marines came within range the French lowered the white flag and opened up with automatic weapons. The extent of casualties were not told but the American Naval forces countered with fire adequate to stop any further capability by the French to continue their fire. The fate of the French who ordered the fire under a flag of truce likely also was commensurate with the deed; any respect we had for the French forces was in the cellar by now anyway...

"On the Road to Morocco"...

After a week or so word came that this allied Seamen contingent were to travel to Port Leautey to be quartered at the airfield operated by the U.S. Air Force. So, back on the train again, but with a known and useful destination this time. We were on a regular train with other passengers. Moving through the countryside we could see American Soldiers walking eastward.

A French Army Officer occupied the same set of seats were I was sitting. Trying to engage him in small talk about the view of the American Soldiers, etc, was useless. He ignored me completely, just kept looking out the train window. I moved away, almost as a courtesy, he seemed to wish to be alone. There was, though, a feeling of quiet satisfaction over his apparent misery...

Arriving at the Port Lyautey airfield we were housed in the administration building basement. Even so, the accommodations were like the Ritz with washing and shower facilities, after the time in the camps. The Stewards and galley personnel were given charge of the kitchen with preparation of all foods for the American personnel. A supply Officers needed someone as interpreter for sundry supplies from the town, which kept me occupied. In between an electrician needed a helper installing some newly arrived radio equipment.

The electrician was curious about this young Seaman from a country he had heard about who had been a prisoner in a country his country had just liberated. I would detail some of the happenings in the camps. Standing on a ladder one day as I was describing some camp happening, the electrician said: "Jon, now you’re pulling my leg!". I stepped back and in all earnestness retorted: "Al, I didn’t touch you!".

Al roared, and came down from the ladder realizing I was up against an idiomatic first, explaining the expression of pulling someone’s leg to ease my embarrassment. He tried to make me feel better by discussing a happening in the dining area that morning.

The colonel in charge of the base sent for the Norwegian Steward in charge of the kitchen telling him the coffee was unsatisfactory and to serve only fresh coffee henceforth. He surmised that the coffee was made from partly used grounds, as was the custom on ships in order to save on coffee usage. The Steward was told American service men deserved the best, fresh coffee every time. The other Norwegian Seamen could just chuckle over the fact that the Steward was, in a sense, put in his place. It may be said, though, that the Steward was true to his profession, being frugal, but obviously at the wrong time and place.

After working with the electrician the Officers’ quarters bar tender needed a helper. My French again came in handy or when we were going to town for supplies and sundries, excluding alcohol and beer which came from the U.S. I am unsure about what my friends from our crew were occupied with, seems I was too enthused about my own doings.

I reveled in the new freedom and the day by day exposure and contact with the Airmen, some of whom would detail their experiences to their buddies. Some were interested in this stranger behind the bar and I enjoyed the rapport hugely.

There were queries about why there was no Coca Cola, my first, almost, encounter with its popularity. Their yen for this drink perhaps was like a tie about home, etc.... The Bartender Bill, in our off hours, would explain the operation of the airport, the comings and goings of the bombers and fighter plains. This included a visit to the sea plane area down by the river. I explained I had hoped to pass by this place when we made the attempt to steal the rowboat last year. The young American was all ears hearing about our experiences.

For those who had never lived or visited much in America, like me, the great American pass-time of touch football became like a show every evening. The Americans would engage in this pass-time every free moment they had. It seemed this was part exercise as well, as if a usual way to stay fit and sharp.

Quite by accident, while in town for supplies, we met a ladyfriend, my guess late -30ish, of one of the Norwegian Captains formerly on a ship at Port Leautey. She worked part time in the store, deduced I was Norwegian and asked if I knew her Captain who was in Casablanca on business. She moved us out in the back courtyard, as if for privacy, stating her place was above the store. Bill nudged me, but I was busy with my French, though she also spoke some English.

She surprised me by confiding apprehension about the future, ours, vis a vis hers; "tu sais?",(familiarly: "you understand?")... Bill said later he understood it was serious talk, by her voice, the way she looked up at me touching my sleeve. It was a chance meeting. I was ill at ease at 24, trying to find words, in a foreign language, for an ‘older’ woman. It was obvious she was worrying about our impending departure, her future afterwards. But she smiled, putting a finger to her lips, and returned to the store... -"C’est la Guerre", wasn’t quite the expression to Bill, younger than I, yet to meet with the experience of the war. I confided in Odd back at the base. We agreed it was best forgotten. Bill just shrugged his shoulders, he understood.

Go to: Chapter Thirteen - Getting To England: