The North Atlantic, December 1942
Warren Campbell was trying to finish his letter to Mother, but was finding it impossible to focus. It wasn’t the noise that was bothering him, he was used to writing in the midst of great noise. It was the smells. The smells were definitely too much to focus.
Warren was on the bottom bunk, specifically the bottom of five. And his bunk bed was hardly a bed. It was more akin to a hammock that was stretched out to reach the rectangular metal tube that it outlined. The bunk was taut but very thin. During Warren’s first night onboard, he was absolutely terrified that the fellow on the top bunk would tear through the hammock fabric and fall on the man in the second top bunk, causing the men to fall like dominos until the combined weight of four soldiers flatten Warren and kill him before the Germans could even have a shot at doing so. Warren did not sleep that first night out of fear of flattening.
These five bunks were among hundreds, perhaps a thousand, in what used to be the very fancy dining hall of the very fancy ocean liner on which they were steaming across the Atlantic. Just a couple of years ago this was the very spot where the most powerful, most beautiful men and women in the world dined and drank. It was the epitome of luxury to all the world. That was hard for Warren to fathom, because at that particular moment the Dining Hall, once a place for the distinguished, was now full of what he thought to be the most depraved specimen of men.
He glanced to his left to see the soldier in the opposite bottom bunk. He was a lanky, horse-faced boy, possibly of Scandinavian stock given his blonde hair. Horse-Face was always reading magazines that that covers of naked women, or on more modest occasions women who were merely scantily clad. Horse-Face never seem to talk with anyone, and Warren had never seen him during mess hours or on the ship’s promenade during exercise hours. All the boy did was read smutty magazines. The naked women were different each day, which suggested to Warren that a sizable fraction of Horse-Face’s rucksack space was smut.
Horse-Face was clad just in boxer shorts, and was reading one of his magazines, the cover featuring a young topless redhead wearing only some kind of cowboy hat. Her mouth was open, as if she was shouting “Yee-haw” or whatever it is that cowboys must say. Warren was a farm boy, but from Hunterdon County. Eastern states had no cowboys; Warren had never even met someone in Hunterdon County who had even been out west, much less met a cowboy.
Warren glanced at Horse-Face, until he realized that Horse-Face’s shorts contained a hard-on. Horse-Face turned the page with his right hand, which then drifted inside his short’s waist. Warren was disgusted and turned away.
He looked to his right, at the other bottom bunk, and saw the soldier that the other guys called simply “Tubs.” Warren thought that the nickname was a tad harsh, since Tubs was not particularly fat, and you only ever call a fellow “Tubs” for being heavy. Tubs was tall with very broad shoulders, and had normal proportions outside of perhaps a large belly. Tubs had really earned his name because he slept quite a lot, and when he slept he didn’t care for a blanket, or trousers, or even boxer shorts. He slept in the buff, completely, without a cover. And he slept on his side which meant his mass would try to meander down the slope of his body, making his body not just large but grotesque. He only grew more grotesque to those who had the misfortune of spotting his pecker amid all the flab.
Warren was always baffled by the men who slept in the buff; even on the hottest summers days back in Hunterdon County he couldn’t find that comfortable. Of course he shared a room with his brothers, but he was rather self-conscious about being seen in the buff even by them, to say nothhing of a stranger. Yet here Tubs did not care, and every night he showed half of the men his pecker and the other half his ass. He changed which side he slept on each night, which made some of the men wonder if he was doing it deliberately, as a stunt. Warren saw that tonight Tubs was presenting his ass to Warren’s half of the room. Just at the moment of Warren’s glance, Tub’s butt cheeks suddenly tingled. A sound erupted from them. Tubs was farting. Warren could hardly contain his disgust. He turned away and faced ahead.
The last thing he needed was another foul additive to the stink. Warren was used to the Hunterdon County countryside. Nothing ever smelled truly foul in the countryside, except death. But even death was dealt with quickly and efficiently, and hardly ever lingered. If you killed a deer or a hare or what-have-you, the smell when you dress it can be awful, but once you’re done and finished it’s tolerable. Other than that, the smells of Hunterdon County are quite pleasant. Here, on the ocean liner, Warren was trapped in a sardine can of the most rancid smells for eight days. Once the site of elegance, the dining hall contained a wretched atmosphere comprised of flatulence, body odor, stale tinned food, piss, grease and other scents that Warren couldn’t muster a guess for.
After a few minutes, Warren tried to sleep. But he couldn’t. He had struggled to fall asleep in the barracks during his Army training, and had only just gotten used to the rhythms of sleeping in the same room as dozens of men when his unit got the call to ship across the ocean. Now he had to learn how to sleep in a room with hundreds, surrounded by depraved smells and still moderately worried that his bunkmates will accidentally crush him with their collective weight in his sleep.
Warren couldn’t take it. He got up, put his trousers, coat and boots on, and began to make his way through the labyrinth of bunks and soldiers. Many of the men were asleep — it was about ten o’clock — while others were reading, playing cards, or shooting the shit with one another. Warren had tried to play cards and shoot the shit the previous three nights, but found it hard. He wasn’t much of a people person, and the only card games he knew were bridge and gin rummy. These boys wanted to play poker, and Warren never learned how to play poker before the Army. He had been a slow learner, and this was made worse by the fact that he could hardly bluff. Warren had no poker face. When he had a good hand, all the boys could tell. When he had a bad hand, the look on Warren’s face was as though Tubs had gotten up from the bunk and broke wind right at nose level.
Warren kept wandering until at last he reached the door to the main corridor. The corridor was called “Scotland Road” by the crew, which apparently is the main street at whichever English port to which the liner used to sail. What he knew about Scotland Road is that it was the corridor to reach the entrance to the promenade deck.
Technically speaking soldiers on the liner were not allowed on the promenade deck after sunset. Why that was remained a mystery, but the Army had plenty of rules that were mysteries to Warren. The rule was exercise hours meant the soldiers could be on the promenade, and exercise hourses ended before dinner. There was hardly ever enough space on the crowded decks to exercise all that much, of course. In spite of the prohibition on going out after dinner, many soldiers still went out to the deck to smoke. Warren never smoked before the Army, and never saw the point of smoking alone. However he likes the companionship of smoking with someone else, and finds it easier to talk when having a smoke as opposed to playing cards or shooting the shit.
He turned the lock and walk out on the promenade deck. As he shut the corridor door the cold hit him. Despite wearing his sweater and coat, he was chilly. The Atlantic winds were perpendicular to the ship, blowing across the width of the ship out to the sea. He looked around; he didn’t see anyone out here, smoking or otherwise. He walked towards the deck railing. The seas looked a little choppy, but not stormy. Warren supposed that this is regular weather out on the Atlantic in early December. He of course was hardly sure, as he had never been out on the open ocean before.
He looked down the deck towards the stern, and then towards the bow. He noticed the faint lights of cigarette ends about thirty yards away, at each end. He could only make out the silhoutettes of the smoking soldiers. He wasn’t sure if they even noticed him. He contemplated where to go to try and get a smoke (he carried no cigarettes, as he never smoked alone).
Warren looksed out to the Atlantic. He saw two of the smaller convoy ships whose mission was to guard the liner from the U-boats and ensure its safe arrival in Europe. But those two ships seemed like tiny children’s models in the face of the giant, endless Atlantic. Warren began to feel a little lonely.
Truthfully, he had felt lonely since Pearl Harbor. Back in Hunterdon County that Sunday night, the night of the Japanese attacks, he went on a walk with the girl he had been courting. Warren had been smitten with her that whole fall and winter. On that walk, she asked him when he was going to enlist. That wasn’t an odd question; Warren had finished school the summer before and had been working as a clerk for the local hardware store. He was a young, healthy man out of school and of fighting age; why wouldn’t he fight? But he pondered that question, and then told her the truth. The truth was, he didn’t particularly want to enlist. If he’s drafted, then of course he’ll go; that would be an obligation, and he understood obligations. But unless that happens, he wasn’t in a hurry to go and leave Hunterdon County to fight. He walked the girl home, and she was silent the rest of the way. She didn’t speak to him after that.
Warren had similar conversations with his family, his friends, and even other girls for months. He knew that the Japanese had attacked us; he knew the Germans were their friends. He knew the Axis were a bad bunch. He knew that he had a duty to fight for his country. And he knew that one day he’d be drafted anyway. He understood all that. But he just didn’t quite see the point in doing anything before Uncle Sam sent him the papers. He didn’t feel the need to give up his life in Hunterdon County until he absolutely had to.
Sure enough, in June he got his papers in the mail from Uncle Sam. He was off to camp by July, and now five months later he was somewhere between Canada and Ireland. He was on a liner steaming along to some corner of Europe that the Nazis hadn’t conquered yet. He accepted all this, but deep in his mind he knew he wasn’t happy to be a part of the right. And he felt the fact that he wasn’t happy made him different from the other guys on this liner.
Warren sighed. He saw his breath. He stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles to get the blood flowing. The air was clean, and the only smells were the salt water and the faint smoky exhaust of the liner’s funnels. It was delight to Warren. He closed his eyes and opened them again. He stared out to the two convoys, and out to the ocean. The sight of them somehow looked beautiful now, in a way they didn’t when he first walked out on deck.
Warren grabbed onto the railing. He wanted to stay here all night, soak in the beauty of the black ocean and black ships and grey moonlight. He couldn’t explain why it was so magnificent all of a sudden. Perhaps after three nights of bad food and cards and loud noises and farts, that silence and darkness and clean air appealed to him, to his soul.
He locked his feet in between the two bottom railings, closed his eyes again, and took a big sniff. The salt air really was refreshing, rejuvenating even. For the first time in the voyage, Warren smiled. He was content.
For a split second he wanted a smoke. He was surprised by that thought, for a number of reasons. One, he doesn’t smoke alone. And two, why on earth would you pollute this delight clean air with the most pleasant salt smell with cigarette smoke? He pondered his subsconscious until he realized — he didn’t want a smoke; he wanted a smoke break. He wanted the experience of a few other soliders and himself huddled in a corner of the promenade deck. Only he didn’t want to smoke, and didn’t want any of them to smoke, either. He wanted tell them just how magnificent it all is, to be on this big ocean liner at night in the middle of the ocean and surrounded by this pure salt air and the motions of the sea. He wanted to share this moment of awe and contentment with the guys. That’s what he ought to do, he thought. He tried to move his feet off the railing, to start walking to either end of the deck to tell the soldiers this.
But his feet were stuck.
He tried to pull his right foot out between the railings, but the boot was stuck. He tried to lean down a little, but couldn’t since his boot wasn’t quite touching the ground. He remembered the wind that was blowing perpendicular to the ship, out to the ocean. He tried and tried, and finally his boot slid out.
The momentum of the boot pushed his leg up, and pushed his midsection up on to the top of the railing. Warren tried to balance himself, catch himself before it was too late. He tried to pull his left foot out, and it got out, but it was a mistake, given the wind. It swung him over the railing.
Poor Warren. All he wanted to do was clean his mind, and his nostrils.
Warren left the C deck promenade, surrounded all sides by the salt air. He passed D deck, then passed E deck, then F deck, and G deck. G deck was the last deck before the waterline. The very last thing he smelled was the salt water, a very pleasant smell all things considered.
The other soldiers on the promenade deck, who Warren so badly wanted to explain the joys of the salt air and the Atlantic night, hadn’t noticed his descent into the sea. They hadn’t even noticed Warren at all. They were too busy commisserating about the awful smells onboard.