Death of a Wooden Shoe - U.S. Coast Guard

U.S. Coast Guard History Program 

Death of a Wooden Shoe 

A Sailor’s Diary of Life and Death on the 

Greenland Patrol, 1942 

by Thaddeus D. Novak 

edited by P.J. Capelotti 

This true story is dedicated to the crew of the U.S. Coast Guard vessel Natsek, 

whose lives were claimed by the sea, and to the crew of the U.S.C.G. vessel Nanok 

and it's one-of-a-kind skipper Magnus G. Magnusson and, finally, to all others who 

comprised the Greenland Patrol during World War II. 

Editor’s Note 

When war brings a young man to a cold and remote place, and his youthful longings 

lead him to record his experiences in a forbidden diary, what might that diary, if it 

ever surfaced after the war, reveal? 

When great opposing forces train their weaponry, their local tactics and global 

strategy, on an Arctic shoreline thousands of miles long and populated by 

unconnected hamlets sheltering at best perhaps a few thousand people, what events 

transpire? When the young seamen and old Chiefs of a small naval force come into 

contact with the natives of an alien Arctic landscape, what memories do they take 

with them? 

Such questions are considered almost daily in the small fourth floor office at United 

States Coast Guard Headquarters at Buzzard Point in Washington, D.C., where the 

Coast Guard Historian is located. Throughout its polyglot history, an almost 

bewildering variety of Coast Guard roles and missions have taken its petty officer 

and chiefs, its officers and seamen, through all of those ‘locked drawers and 

hideaways’ that Melville wrote awaited them in the 19th century. Only occasionally 

have glimpses of what these men saw and felt during these 

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times away from their homeland emerged, and even less frequently do such 

accounts find their way to Buzzard Point. 

Thaddeus D. Nowakowski, "’ski," diligently kept a diary during his six crucial 

months as a seaman on board the Nanok, a small fishing trawler converted to 

wartime Arctic cutter on the Greenland Patrol. That such a diary has surfaced 

half a century after the conclusion of the war is little short of remarkable. No other 

such diary, kept by an enlisted man, has survived this Arctic war, and with good 

reason. Nowakowski kept his diary in almost unforgivable ignorance of standing 

orders forbidding such memorials. In fact, six months of loyalty to a seaman’s 

memories was almost wiped out in a trice when his Chief discovered the diary’s 

existence in December of 1942. (Such was the least of his worries, however, 

since the very existence of the diary could have led directly to Nowakowski’s 

court-martial.) 

But the Chief—as Chief’s are want to do—only flew into a temporary rage, then 

turned his back and spared both the seaman and his transgressive diary of a 

Coast Guard wartime patrol in Greenland. So the diary exists, and beyond the 

expected undercurrents of fisticuffs, foul language, sexual humor, obsession with 

nicknames, gambling, and almost universal homesickness and crude loneliness 

of men at war and men without women, the diary goes much deeper. It offers a 

striking account of the wartime encounters between native Greenlanders and 

enlisted sailors, between various branches of American services in the far north, 

and between enlisted men and their Chiefs and officers. The latter clashes are 

rarely recorded, and when they are the incidents are invariably stated from the 

viewpoint of the officer. 

There is herein little mention of geopolitical strategy, great military maneuvers, or 

pivotal naval engagements; the diary instead is a young man’s attempt to make 

sense of his immediate surroundings. This is a sailor caught amid storms he can 

barely comprehend, wishing, at base, for peace, for an end to all injustice within 

the hearts of his fellows and, at the end of his cold Greenlandic rainbow, for the 

golden promotion to Petty Officer and the loving and welcoming arms of his 

bride. 

Evincing every bit of the fable of the adaptability of the American enlisted man, 

Nowakowski learns more from his first brief encounter with a Greenlander than 

all the Viking, Danish, British, and American officers had learned in a thousand 

years of exploration, exploitation, and colonization: "No longer must I wonder 

what I may teach these uneducated natives, but what they will teach me." 

That he could shed his previously unquestioned cultural superiority so rapidly 

and strikingly is a testament, if in miniature, to the open-mindedness of the 

enlisted soldiers and sailors that the United States sent to every corner of the 

globe during the World War II. The open-mindedness is extended to revealing 

glimpses of a solitary seaman in Greenland , a newly-married man suddenly and 

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harshly separated from his bride, a stranger in a strange land if ever there was 

one. At one point Nowakowski yearns to communicate with the Eskimo if for no 

other reason than to attain some rationale in his otherwise completely alien 

surroundings. He ponders, thinking: "I would like to tell them how very lonely their 

land and environment makes me feel. I would like to ask them how they manage 

to tolerate loneliness if indeed they do." 

To add to this burden, fate conspired to place Nowakowski and the Nanok side 

by side for six months in Greenland with the Natsek, the only one of the ten 

Arctic trawlers lost during the course of the Greenland Patrol. The Natsek drifts 

briefly into and out of Nowakowski’s diary, as if reminding him subconsciously 

that they share a fateful rendezvous. Nowakowski and Captain Magnus 

Magnusson, half a century ago, shared the bridge of the Nanok during that long 

December night and day in the Strait of Belle Isle when the Natsek’s lights 

vanished in the swirling snow, never to be seen again. In fact, Nowakowski’s 

account of those horrendous seventeen hours on December 17, 1942, provides 

the only glimpse extant of what might have transpired on the bridge of the Natsek 

before that vessel went down. To this day no trace of the vessel or its crew has 

ever been found. 

My feeling of kinship with the young Nowakowski (now Novak), stems in part 

from my own service as a Chief Petty Officer in the U.S. Coast Guard Reserve, 

head of a minute staff of enlisted reservists who perform their national service at 

the Coast Guard Historian’s Office. This affinity was also prompted by my having, 

in 1992, written an anniversary article on artist and Natsek skipper Lieutenant 

Thomas Sargent La Farge and the sinking of the Natsek, and a compelling desire 

that took me to St. Matthew’s Cathedral in downtown Washington to see La 

Farge’s mosaic there. An archaeological expedition to Svalbard also gave me 

some experience in the Arctic (not to mention an incapacitating bout of 

seasickness as our small icebreaker was pounded by rough seas for twelve 

miserable hours), as well as with the prevailing style of command on board 

Norwegian merchant vessels, the same tradition which nurtured Magnus 

Magnussson. 

Thus when Death of a Wooden Shoe made its way to the Coast Guard 

Historian’s Office in early 1994, I felt drawn to undertaking the task of editing 

Novak’s diary and bringing it to publication. This I have done with much 

encouragement and support from Dr. Robert Browning, Coast Guard Historian, 

Scott Price, Assistant Coast Guard Historian, Dr. William N. Still, Jr., former 

Director of the Program in Maritime History and Underwater Archaeology at East 

Carolina University, and Dr. Susan Barr of the Norwegian Polar Institute. 

Professor Wynne Caldwell once again came to my aid during the exacting editing 

process. Ted Novak himself has been gracious in responding to and answering 

numerous requests. 

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The diary that follows is one of the few first-hand accounts that survives from the 

early crisis period of the Greenland Patrol, and the only such first-hand account 

from the perspective of an involved young enlisted seaman. Therefore, it 

occupies a unique place in the history of the U.S. Coast Guard, of U.S. naval 

operations in the Arctic , and of the Second World War. 

P.J. Capelotti 

Washington , D.C. 

October, 1995 

Historical Background 

On April 9, 1940, Germany invaded neighboring Denmark , a nation of four 

million compared to Germany ’s eighty millions. 

It is unlikely that Adolf Hitler was unaware of the strategic value of Denmark's 

colony Greenland, especially the cryolite mines located at Ivigtut on the island's 

southwest coast, which mine produced the world’s greatest amount of the quartz 

like fluoride of sodium, a substance used in the electrolytic production of 

aluminum, essential for construction of military aircraft. The mine’s production 

quantity dwarfed the total production of the only two other known mines in the 

world, one in Colorado and the other in the Ural Mountains of the Soviet Union. 

Greenland cryolite had been a cornerstone of the U.S. aircraft industry since the 

1920s, and accounted for practically all of Greenland ’s exports. 

The Ivigtut mines are less than a mile up a fjord from the sea, and vulnerable to 

enemy attack. Vessels transporting cryolite from Greenland to the U.S. were also 

in grave danger, particularly when southbound through the narrow Strait of Belle 

Isle . 

In addition to it’s cryolite, Greenland was quickly transformed by the war into a 

strategically desirable island. It provided a refueling stepping stone for shortrange, 

England-bound U.S. military aircraft, and served as weather observation 

outpost for North Atlantic convoys. As war threatened to engulf the world, U.S. 

interest in Greenland grew in proportion. 

In early 1941, the U.S. passed the Lend-Lease Act and, defying German sea 

blockades, began supplying the British with large amounts of munitions and other 

war materials. These shipments transited Greenland waters. In April, the U.S. 

signed an agreement with the Danish ambassador that placed Greenland under 

the protective custody of the United States . 

Commander Edward Hanson (Iceberg) Smith led an expedition from the Coast 

Guard Cutter Northland to locate and survey what would soon become the 

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American base at Narsarssuak near Julianehåb in southwest Greenland . Smith 

returned to the U.S. in May, his South Greenland Survey Force dissolved and its 

vessels placed under the operational control of the Navy, which then formed the 

West Greenland Patrol and East Greenland Patrol as subdivisions of the Atlantic 

Fleet. 

On June 14, 1941, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt ordered the Americanheld 

assets of Germany and Italy and the countries occupied by them to be 

frozen. Less than a month later, U.S. troops were moved into Iceland to shield it 

and Greenland from possible German invasion, and to safeguard the seaways 

between Iceland , Greenland and the U.S. The U.S. then closed all German and 

Italian consulates in the U.S. 

On September 4, a U-boat launched its torpedoes against a U.S. Navy destroyer, 

the Greer, as it passed Greenland bound for Iceland with mail for the new 

American base there. Less than a week later, Roosevelt issued his "shoot-onsight" 

order, declaring that German or Italian war vessels that entered waters 

deemed necessary for the defense of the Americas, did so at they own peril. One 

day later the Northland, as part of the East Greenland Patrol, captured a fishing 

vessel flying the Norwegian flag, the Buskoe, which had just landed a German 

radio transmitter at Franz Joseph Fjord. The Coast Guardsmen from the 

Northland destroyed the radio and captured the Buskoe, the first American naval 

capture of the war. 

On December 11, 1941, four days after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor , 

Germany and Italy declared war on the U.S. , and the U.S. Congress quickly 

responded in kind. The East Greenland Patrol merged with the West Greenland 

Patrol to form the Greenland Patrol under the command of ‘Iceberg’ Smith, who 

was faced with the task of insuring the safe transport of shipping to and from 

Greenland , traffic that had suddenly increased by a factor of three. 

Smith was desperate for escort vessels to convoy the sudden and intensive 

increase of Greenland-bound shipping, and to supply the outposts and weather 

stations of the Greenland coast. Most U.S. weather observation outposts in 

Greenland were manned by small numbers of U.S. Army meteorologists, and 

mail to these outposts could only be delivered by ship during the brief Greenland 

summer. Otherwise, only if they were fortunate and weather conditions were not 

too fierce or dangerous, could aircraft parachute in additional mail or supplies. 

The army meteorologists were a special breed, able to tolerate isolation and 

privation, with their radio transmitters and receivers as their only lifelines. These 

outposts were responsible not only for providing weather observation data, but 

also to assure that no enemy presence would function in their vicinity for similar 

purposes. 

So when Commander Smith located ten 120-foot fishing trawlers in Boston , he 

immediately recognized their strategic potential, and cabled Vice Admiral Russell 

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R. Waesche, Commandant of the Coast Guard. Waesche commandeered the 

trawlers for the Greenland Patrol, and manned the vessels with hand-picked 

crews. Both Waesche and Smith knew this to be but a temporary expedient, but 

more appropriate vessels would not be on-line for more than a year. Until then, 

this small fleet of ten vessels had to fill the yawning breech in American naval 

strategy that stretched from Boston to Narsarssuak, and supply remote outposts 

flung along the length of a hostile and forbidding shore. 

The ten vessels converted into expedient Arctic cutters were all in the 120 foot, 

225-ton class. They were assigned Greenlandic names: Aivik, Aklak, Alatok, 

Amarok, Arluk, Arvek, Atak, Natsek, Nanok, and Nogak. These vessels, as 

Thaddeus Novak writes, looked not unlike 

"huge wooden shoes, and were needed because they were 

capable of snaking-through narrow Greenland fjords, dense fields 

of icebergs and cake ice. Their maneuverability could not be 

equaled by larger, freighter-sized vessels. For the most part, large 

freighters were to bring supplies from the U.S. to Greenland , but 

the wooden shoe trawler fleet would do most of the distribution to 

the many small installations. Despite being relatively petite in size 

the trawlers were capable of ferrying some 90 tons of hold cargo 

and many more tons on deck. It seemed most probable that enemy 

submarines would so treasure their secret location that they would 

even refrain from surfacing to deck-gun a tiny trawler into oblivion, 

which of course they could. The wooden shoe trawler's true 

enemies were the elements. In all but one instance, they would 

prove to be more than worthy adversaries." 

Author’s Preface 

This true story is an expansion of my wartime diary. While in boot camp’s long 

weeks of quarantine, for need of something to do, I purchased the diary from the 

base’s small stores outlet. It was impossible to keep the diary chronologically 

perfect aboard ship for several reasons. At times the weather was so bad the 

ship’s rolling and pitching made it impossible to guide pen on paper. Thank 

goodness my bunk had a sideboard to prevent me from rolling out onto the deck 

while asleep. The other side of my bunk was the ship's outer skin. 

Other times when the workday was long and the chores extra heavy, I was happy 

just to flop into my bunk and fall asleep before reaching the pillow. Yet other 

times my mental attitude was in such state of depression I considered giving my 

diary to the sea. During times of comparable activity, there was little to record. 

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Therefore as many as five days might pass before I bothered to catch up on 

"dear diary." 

The reader should know that wartime ship movements, arrivals, departures and 

schedules are rarely mentioned in any of the crew’s presence. Therefore we 

crew members only caught snatches of such detail, and only when the skipper 

conversed with our executive officer or some visiting dignitary. What made 

keeping a diary even more difficult was that ordinary crew members never got to 

see maps or charts, and we had no radio to listen to. The radio shack was taboo 

for all but radio operators. 

Whenever names of Greenlandic places were mentioned, they were always 

tongue twisters. In my diary I spelled them as they sounded phonetically to me. 

Example, ah-ma-sa-leek later proved to be Angmagssalik. In putting this story 

together, much backtracking had to be done. There were old, obsolete maps to 

be found and examined, Greenlandic village names to associate with military 

base code names, etc. There were copies of ships logs to obtain and many facts 

to verify. The pieces were gathered and roughly assembled in 1944, but then my 

enthusiasm waned. Now there is need for haste if any of the remaining crew are 

ever to see the completed story. I know of only four of them still alive. 

Conversations between crew members are not verbatim, but are as accurate as 

memory and diary-keeping can make them. Attitudes of characters are my 

interpretations as I witnessed them and as factual as I perceived them to be. 

* * * * 

I am from a family of eight boys and four girls. There was a thirty-one-year age 

difference between Benjamin the oldest and Edward the youngest. I was the 

second youngest. Ben was twenty-five-years-old when I was born. He was a 

volunteer infantry man in World War One. Seeing him, I often wondered if one 

day I would become a blood-and-guts, mud-spattered, yankee doodle, dog-faced 

yardbird in the same trenches of France's Argonne Forest where the Germans 

mustard-gassed Ben's legs while trying, fortunately without success, to shoot 

holes in him. 

When war came to my generation, three options were open to me. I turned 21 on 

June 3, 1940, and in September of that year the U.S. created it’s first peacetime 

conscription, called "the selective training and service act." Men aged 21 to 36 

were to be first on call and qualified for military training. My first option was to 

wait until drafted into whatever branch of military service the system selected for 

me. (After draft was instituted, I was assigned a draft number, and thereafter 

awaited President Roosevelt's summons, one that always began—humorously, 

so I thought then—with the word: "Greetings.") Secondly, I could voluntarily enlist 

in any branch of the service that I qualified for (but then I would have to remain in 

that service for the entire pre-established enlistment period for that branch of 

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service—perhaps even well beyond the war's end). Three, I could run off to some 

nearby country where the U.S. could not get it's hands on me. Truth is the third 

option never crossed my mind. 

Ultimately, I decided on the second course of action and joined the U.S. Coast 

Guard, known as the Mickey Mouse Navy by some. During several summer 

vacations from high school I worked as kitchen help aboard a Great Lakes ore 

carrier Norman J. Kopmeir. There I saw the Coast Guard in action several times, 

and thought they never left the Great Lakes or the lighthouses they maintained. 

In other words, a safe place to spend the war if it were to come—beyond the 

range of enemy bullets. I had been laid off from my job as a laborer on the 

automotive assembly of Chrysler Motors Dodge main plant in Detroit . On 

Monday, August 25, 1941, I stopped off at the factory, and bid farewell to my 

friends there. I returned my employee identification badge and later that day was 

sworn into the U.S. Coast Guard. 

Besides myself, World War II captured my brother Joseph, a south seas U.S. 

Navy Seabee, Raymond, an Army yardbird, and Edward (Duke), a PT Boat 

torpedoeman. Soon after we all enlisted we lost track of one another for the 

duration of the war. Although we all survived, we all became casualties. 

* * * * 

After a three day train journey I arrived on Thursday, August 28, 1941, at the 

U.S. Coast Guard Training Station in Algiers , Louisiana , just across the river 

from New Orleans . After six weeks training I was transferred to the Coast Guard 

Lifeboat Station at Jackson Park on the South Side of Chicago, Illinois. From 

there to the Lifeboat Station at Frankfort , Michigan , then back to the old 

Chicago Lifeboat Station near the navy pier. So far all as I had expected. Then I 

was transferred to Curtis Bay, Maryland, where I boarded the Sea Cloud as a 

seaman 1/c. At the time the Sea Cloud was the largest sailing vessel in the 

world, and we busied ourselves re-rigging this beautiful, white, gold-trimmed 

vessel from a peacetime luxury vessel into a wartime Coast Guard Cutter. 

Marjorie Merriweather Post, the Battle Creek , Michigan cereal heiress had the 

Sea Cloud built at the Krupp Works in Kiel , Germany in 1931 at a cost of 

$900,000 American, a fantastic sum at the time. The Sea Cloud was 316 feet 

long, had a beam of 49 feet 2 inches, and a depth of 24 feet, 10 inches. She 

weighed 2300 tons and flew 86,000 square feet of sail when underway. Her 

bowsprit was a magnificent twenty-one-foot long gilded maiden. The Cloud 

boasted nine refrigeration units and a walk-in electrically-heated clothes drying 

room. After most masts and all canvas had been taken off ship and stowed, her 

auxiliary plant became her main power. There were two giant electric motors to 

turn twin propellers, at the tail ends of ninety-foot long stainless steel drive shafts. 

Diesel engines turned several electric generators that powered the motors. In 

peacetime there was a crew of seventy-two to serve a maximum of thirty guests 

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in seven large air conditioned bedrooms below main deck. A wide circular 

stairway led down to them, the stairway banister a heavy, stiff, three-stranded 

silk, red, white and blue rope handrail supported by gold brackets. 

Ms. Post's bathroom was very large with walls of large, square, beautiful slabs of 

pink and black marble. The toilet seat was inlaid with white, yellow, rose and 

green gold oriental flowers, and the toilet paper was printed with colorful, scenic, 

oriental patterns. The main deck salon had very thick glass walls with protective 

steel outer walls. They slid open silently at the touch of a button. Every oil 

painting in the salon was secured onto the face of a wall-cabinet door which, 

when opened, exposed wall-wells filled with fine, bottled wines. 

The vessel was so designed for guest privacy that none of the crew would have 

any casual occasion to cross through the guest area. From the forward crew 

quarters, crew members were required to step down below main deck, follow a 

passageway aft, then climb back up to main deck beyond the guest area. Ms. 

Post leased the Sea Cloud to the U.S. Government for $1.00 per year, and 

supposedly for the duration of war hostilities, and it was probably the best 

financial bargain Ms. Post had ever received. During the wartime, fuel was 

rationed and not available for pleasure craft. The Cloud, therefore, would have 

had to remain idle at a maintenance cost of some $200,000.00 per year. When 

no longer required, the ship was to be returned to it's owner, completely 

refurbished, free of charge. If the vessel were destroyed by the enemy, it's value 

would be replaced. This type of lease agreement was extended to anyone willing 

to allow the government to borrow vessels suitable for governmental use. 

The Sea Cloud became very useful for weather observation patrol in the far 

North Atlantic . From her and vessels like her came the weather data General 

Dwight D. Eisenhower would use to calculate the date for the invasion of 

Normandy . 

June 1942 

Captain Magnusson (if not an enemy in disguise), is the most encouraging piece 

of equipment on board. The man is a tough, powerful, stubborn-looking 

Norwegian (so we hear). He is said to have been born and raised in Iceland . We 

would later learn he owns a fleet of fishing trawlers similar to the Nanok. He has 

some thirty-seven years of North Atlantic sailing experience built into his 

medium-sized frame. ... Brine sea spray has rimmed his eyes with white circles 

around blue, tempered-steel pupils. He has a square, cast iron jaw that juts 

forward of his chest. The sea must be made of his salt. 

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June 8, 1942, Monday; U.S.C.G. Cutter Sea Cloud 

Damn! 

I have been transferred from the beautiful U.S.C.G. Cutter Sea Cloud to the 

Coast Guard Receiving Station in Boston , Massachusetts . The station is the 

ancient Brunswick Hotel on Boylston Street , around the corner from the elegant 

Copley Plaza Hotel. 

The Brunswick is so old, toilet flush water tanks are mounted high on the wall 

behind the sit-on poop buckets. To flush, one must pull on a chain that hangs 

from the bottom of the tank and voila! you get a superb flush with suction enough 

to make a giant hickey out of your entire backside. The flush also thrashes your 

behind with some of your own dirt. You soon learn to get up off of the seat before 

pulling the chain, and quickly jump away after the chain is pulled. 

I will not miss the North Atlantic weather patrol duty of the Sea Cloud, but I 

already miss the comradery of the buddies I had acquired. Weather patrol duty 

consists of wallowing in the ocean somewhere far out in the North Atlantic, thirty 

to forty-five days at a time. Every hour or so a helium filled balloon is sent aloft 

with a box of weather sensitive devices attached. The device radios back high 

altitude weather data that is invaluable to American warship and plane 

movements on both sides of the Atlantic . All large scale military actions require 

accurate weather information. 

June 9, Tuesday; Brunswick Hotel 

Boston overflows with servicemen, mostly sailors. Bostonians are kind to us. The 

ladies seem to adore us. Someone said, "whenever a Boston damsel’s eyes light 

up, they glow red, white and navy blue." 

Boston , where so very much of America ’s march toward independence began. I 

am in awe of the many historic landmarks that still stand, and I feel I must touch 

everyone I am allowed to. I pause at various places and ponder the events that 

had taken place there. From my youth I recall Faneuil Hall, "the cradle of liberty," 

the Market Place and Public Hall of early Boston . It is a mere eighty by one 

hundred feet and just three stories high, once the home of "the Ancient and 

Honorable Artillery Company of Massachusetts ." I spent at least ten minutes 

standing at the March 5, 1770, site of what is known as the Boston Massacre, 

where a squad of British soldiers were struck by debris thrown at them by a 

crowd of demonstrators. The soldiers fired into the crowd killing five men. Without 

having been there when there incident had taken place, I had to conclude the 

punishment hardly fit the crime. The soldiers were tried for murder and were 

defended by John Adams and Josiah Quincy. Two were convicted of 

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manslaughter and were branded on the thumb. The others, including their 

officers, were acquitted. 

It is a moving experience for me to stand within the tiny cemetery called the 

Granary Burial Ground surrounded by towering buildings in the middle of 

downtown Boston . Progress does not disturb the sleep of those who lie here. 

Many of those I met in history books lie beneath my feet, including Paul Revere, 

Ben Franklin’s parents and three signers of the Declaration of Independence. 

There are the great and remembered and the not so great and mostly forgotten 

lying side by side. 

I love beautiful Boston Commons, a greenery of flowers, trees, shrubs and grass 

in the heart of the city. In the year 1634 it was purchased from one Reverend 

Blaxton. It was to be the militia’s training area and a hanging place for pirates 

who were hung from the branches of an elm tree by the frog pond. Too, this was 

where the red coats began their journey to join the Battle of Lexington. The first 

public school originated here in Boston and it’s first schoolmaster was Phileamon 

Pormort. 

Boston , the capital of Massachusetts , is the seat of Suffolk County . It 

encompasses over forty-seven square miles and houses more than 801,000 

people. It has a fine thirty-five foot deep channel and some forty miles of ship 

birthing space. It is one of the largest drydocks in America . Here occurred the 

1773 Boston Tea Party, the 1775 ride of Paul Revere, and the 1775 Battle of 

Bunker Hill. 

I minutely examine the Old North Church and study every outside architectural 

feature. It is difficult to imagine this neat little church has been here since 1723. It 

still has the tower where warning lanterns were hung for Paul Revere to see. 

Bostonians, accustomed to the church’s presence, hurry by it’s portal without a 

second glance. It is the transient soldier or sailor that is taken by this historical 

shrine of liberty. 

I am familiar with Paul Revere, but find myself wondering about the identity of 

whoever hung the lanterns for him to see. Perhaps he or she is one of the many 

who lie uncelebrated in the Granary. Possibly history records the name or names 

somewhere. 

Several soldiers and sailors stop and join me to study the church that is, on 

occasion, illuminated by candles. We stand on historic ground. It is another time, 

another time of war, World War II, the great war of my time. I wonder if any of 

these men will be a hero of the future. Is there an Adams, Washington, Webster, 

or Jefferson amongst them? Do they wonder if 

I am one of such? 

11

Will any of us ever live to pass this way again? I hope so, but I for one am not of 

heroic tendency. 

June 10, Wednesday; Brunswick Hotel 

They say loafing can be great here. That is, if you can avoid being selected for a 

work detail headed for the shipyard to scrape black oil, scum, and slime from 

stinking ship bilges. They cornered me today, but I vow, never again! I had to 

throw away the clothes I wore. 

Boston has declared today to be Hero Day, honoring thirteen heroes. 

Perhaps they were bilge cleaners. 

June 11, Thursday; Brunswick Hotel 

The Sea Cloud shoved off today. Me and two new-found buddies went and got 

smashed at the Cocoanut Grove Lounge. It’s not easy to enjoy drinking drinks 

you really cannot afford. Somehow we managed. 

June 12, Friday; Brunswick Hotel 

I am reading everything I can get my hands on. Anything to distract me from 

thinking about Lucille, my wife of just four months. 

June 13, Saturday; Brunswick Hotel 

Got eye-tired of reading so I took a leisurely stroll through Boston Commons. For 

the first time in my life I was approached by a very pretty young lady of perhaps 

seventeen years of age, who asked me outright to have sexual intercourse with 

her. I must be somewhat abnormal for I blurted a "no!" loud enough for other 

strollers to hear. I was strangely afraid yet sexually aroused. My sailor trousers 

do not hide an arousal but emphasizes it instead. I hurried back to the Brunswick 

and tried desperately to focus my thoughts on Lucille. No luck. 

June 14, Sunday; Brunswick Hotel 

12

Just moped around all day, haunted by yesterday. I miss Lucille more than ever. 

June 15, Monday; Brunswick Hotel 

Good Lord! I have only been here seven days and have been given the 

assignment of marching a company of men from the Brunswick to Boston 

Commons, down Boylston Street . I know little about marching or drilling a 

company of one hundred. After all, I am only a seaman l/c. The only experience I 

have had is when we horsed around in Algiers . We used to take turns drilling a 

squad or two just to pass time. 

The chief boatswain in charge marched silently alongside of me. I am sure he 

has done this as a joke. If I were to fail, surely he would take over ... so I hoped. 

I wanted to deliberately fail so he would excuse me and take over the task. On 

the other hand, I knew if I fouled up I would be too embarrassed to face any of 

this group ever again. 

The Chief wore a coon-dog-eatin’-crap grin on his face as we marched along. 

He, however, did not assist me in any way. After my initial fear and nervousness 

subsided, I began to enjoy the experience and surprised myself by doing very 

well. 

Crowds of people stopped along curbside and some even cheered as we 

marched smartly by. I had the men sing in cadence as we marched along: 

"Sound off ... sound off, 

in cadence count, 

won, oop, dree, fohp, 

won, oop, dree, fohp. 

Left, left, left right left, 

I had a good home 

But I left. 

The Waacs and Waves 

Will win the war 

13

June 16, Tuesday; Brunswick Hotel 

So what in the hell 

Are we fighting for? 

Won, oop, dree, fohp." 

Routine, eat, sleep, and cuss the fact that a war is going on. 

June 17, Wednesday; Brunswick Hotel 

What do you know!? 

My old tub Sea Cloud picked up eight survivors from a Portuguese schooner 

called the Marie da Gloria that was sunk by a Nazi submarine on June 6. She 

was merely fishing off the Grand Banks and was unarmed. The poor devils on 

board a small lifeboat were adrift for ten days and were half starved. One man 

died while another went berserk, jumped into the sea and was gone. Lifeboats 

with thirty-four others simply disappeared, adrift, only God knows where. It looks 

like the Nazis do feel that small vessels are worth torpedoing after all. 

June 18, Thursday; Brunswick Hotel 

During early a.m. a dozen of us swabbies were taken to the shipyards to scrape 

stinking bilges once again. After three red hot showers I picked up a ticket at the 

Buddies Club to see Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians. Later a few beers at 

Steubin’s Bar. 

June 19, Friday; Brunswick Hotel 

Getting bored with keeping dear diary. Nothing interesting or exciting to write 

about... At least not yet. 

Slept in and missed a.m. muster. Got myself chewed out by the angry Chief 

Boatswain that made me march to Boston Commons. 

14

June 20, Saturday; Brunswick Hotel 

Got several letters from Lucille. Sat around, listened to radio, washed clothes, 

and went to see a dumb, boring movie. 

June 21, Sunday; Brunswick Hotel 

Days drag for me, too long, induces homesickness, especially since I have a 

young, beautiful bride awaiting me. 

The Coast Guard upsets me in that long-term, close friendships are not 

encouraged. They are often broken up when known by a superior to exist. 

When transferred from boot camp to the old Chicago Lifeboat Station, I first 

learned of the practice. Our skipper Olander learned that I buddied with Clare 

(Clarence) Boike, my boot camp buddy, and he immediately split us up. I was 

retained at the old Chicago Station while Boike was sent to the Wilmette, Ill. , 

station. Captain Olander had a sensible but unpopular theory. Whenever two 

men became close buddies and one or the other gets himself maimed or killed, it 

often causes the other to suffer the loss too much mentally and reduces his 

effectiveness as a combatant. I have no quarrel with the theory, but still hated to 

lose Boike's camradery. 

Now I hear a familiar voice. I turn around in the chow line and come face to face 

with Boike! 

We both are overwhelmed and hug hell out of each other while others in the line 

make uncomplimentary female sounding comments about lovers. It has been a 

hell of a long time since Clare and I have seen each other. We did not care a pot 

of piss what anyone thought. Our meeting proved to be a super morale booster 

for both of us. After getting free tickets at the Buddies Club, Boike and I go to see 

Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians. A great orchestra and show. Sitting in the 

front row reserved for servicemen, we are quite content. 

June 22, Monday; on board U.S.C.G.C. Nanok at Constitution Wharf. 

After 22 long days comes a transfer at last! From bad ... to possibly worse! From 

the Brunswick to the U.S.C.G. Cutter Nanok, an ex-fishing trawler that reeks of 

rotted fish! 

15

All of those on board are given an allowance to temporarily purchase meals from 

restaurants. The Nanok has no cook as yet, and no food provisions. Who could 

eat on board with the foul stench anyway? Our allowance is $1.20 per day. 

Buddy Boike and I are separated once again. He has been transferred on board 

the U.S.C.G. trawler Atak that is also tied up here, just forward of the Nanok. Old 

Ironsides, the forty-four-gun frigate that figured so prominently and heroically in 

America’s early history berthed here during times of warfare long ago. 

The tiny wooden shoe Nanok is a product of the Snow Shipyard in Rockland, 

Maine, and launched but a year ago. Though she is very young, she looks very 

old. She wears no makeup. She is but 120 feet long overall, has a modest 24 1/2 

foot beam and a maximum draft of 12 feet. Her U.S.C.G. identity and call letters 

are WYP-169. When fully manned, she is to carry a compliment of twenty-one 

men and two commissioned officers. 

The east end of Constitution Wharf protrudes into Boston’s inner harbor. Its west 

end terminates at Atlantic Avenue which runs roughly north and south. From the 

west comes Hanover Street which ends here at Atlantic Avenue and Constitution 

Wharf's front door. 

I find the historic wharf disappointing. I expected Old Ironsides berthing place 

would be a magnificent and elaborate dockage. Instead, the wharf’s structure is 

somewhat in decay. There are numerous barrels indoors. A sharp, 

mouthwatering pungent odor suggests they are filled with vinegar and some are 

leaking. 

We must walk the partial mile from Atlantic Avenue, up Hanover Street to our 

favorite fun place, Scollay Square. The square is a notorious knock-em-down 

and drag-em-out bar and dancehall area that is "off limits" to all servicemen. 

That’s probably why servicemen gather there in droves. 

Our skipper is not yet known to us and is not on board the Nanok. An old 

sourdough, fuzz-faced chief boatswain’s mate about sixty-two-years-old is 

temporarily in charge. He hails from Stapleton, Staten Island, N.Y. He never 

talks, he always shouts. He was about to be retired when the war came along 

and he was compelled to continue in service for the war’s duration. Chief Talledo 

is mostly American Indian. He is a squat figure about as wide as he is high. His 

dark, deeply lined face makes him appear as if he is about to attend a very 

unpleasant tribal meeting. He is obviously a man of great physical strength, 

extremely muscular. As old as he may be, I would not choose to test his strength. 

I am wondering how anyone can manage to stay out of his path for any great 

period of time on board so small a vessel as the Nanok. He is a steamroller and 

practically steps over those in his path. 

16

I meet and become immediate buddies with Sullivan (Davy) Jones, a seaman 2/c 

from Yonkers, N.Y. "Sully" is a massive, shy, twenty-two-year-old with a base 

drum in lieu of a voice. He wears a perennial blush-red face. 

Talledo says the blush comes from playing with himself too often. I doubt that. 

Sully’s shoes are more like pontoons. The guy laughs easily from cavernous 

depths. His "haw, haw, haw" carries half a mile. He is the only one 

I know that still shaves with a straight razor. My nerves shatter every time he 

trims the hair on the back of his neck with just two or three fast swipes of the 

sharp blade. Whenever we try to harmonize in song, he sounds like a bullfrog 

with a hangover. 

June 23, Tuesday; Nanok. 

I try to locate Boike but he is not around. Jonesy asks me to accompany him to 

Scollay Square for drinks and laughs so away we go. On Hanover Street near 

the square we stop at a rundown theater to see Charlie Chaplin in Gold Rush, 

then to an upstairs drink and dancehall on the Square. We converse with a few 

lively girls. Sul’s face is afire but I know he enjoys every minute. After a dinner we 

drink too much and enjoy a laughing jag. We wander into the subway and take a 

long ride just for the hell of it. We have no particular destination. Somewhere we 

wander into a cemetery. Jones keeps yelling that it is the day of resurrection and 

that everyone should "rise and shine." It is probably after midnight and we have 

dared one another to steal a floral wreath. We both do so. We haul it back to the 

Nanok on the subway whose passengers all seem to have extra large eyes. 

On board the Nanok we lay it gently atop Pete Petrenko’s sleeping body. 

Everyone else in the forecastle is asleep also. I take a large pan and a wooden 

spoon and crawl into my sack. Jonesy is already in his. It is fairly dark and silent 

except for snoring here and there. I suddenly smash the wooden spoon into the 

pan. Silence is shattered! I quickly hide pan and spoon under my blankets. 

Everyone in the place sits upright like a bunch of zombies with wide staring eyes. 

As Petrenko sits up, his head and upper torso rises through the center of the 

wreath like a finger through a donut hole. His arms are pinned to the sides of his 

body. Even in the semi-gloom he realized the wreath was a cemetery thing and 

lets out a blood-congealing scream! The fearful sound raised hair on the nape of 

my neck and prickled my ears! 

Pete is a rawboned giant with basketball sized hands. I realized instantly we 

could never, ever tell Pete who encased him in the wreath. There are numerous 

more pleasant ways to die. Pete leaped out of his sack, ran topside with the 

wreath and threw it overboard along with another frightening roar that I could 

17

hear even below deck. I doubt that anyone fell asleep again that night. I swore 

Sully to secrecy about the wreath, pan, spoon and the drummer. He kiddingly 

threatened to tell. I kiddingly promised to bury him if he dared. 

June 24, Wednesday; Nanok. 

Hot diggidy shit! 

We got our skipper today! He is Lieutenant (j.g.) Magnus G. Magnusson (Res.) 

Immediately and automatically he became "Maggie" to everyone. 

We guess Maggie to be around sixty years of age. He mentions that he has a 

wife and several children and hails from Winchester, Mass. Some of the crew say 

they met him yesterday. Staneczak said Maggie had called to him from the wharf 

and was wearing civilian clothes at the time. He had asked Stan the whereabouts 

of the Nanok and Stan replied: "This is it." 

Looking disdainfully at the wooden shoe, in a foreign accent and curled back lip 

he muttered a disgusted, "Jeezusskryst!!" He did not come on board or identify 

himself. He spun around and left. 

Today he returned. In just minutes the guy takes over. His arms are loaded with 

fresh, brand new, tag-filled G.I. clothing, including several skipper hats piled atop 

his head. We wonder if he has had any Coast Guard training whatsoever. It was 

common knowledge that any serviceman wearing anything other than his official 

uniform could get himself locked up in the pokey. How come he arrives twice 

wearing civvies? 

As there was no one to introduce him to the crew, and since he showed no proof 

of identity, spoke with a foreign accent, and didn’t even wear a uniform, I had a 

fleeting thought that, good Lord, he could be the enemy! Since Talledo accepted 

the man "as is," who was I to think such thoughts? 

Maggie (if not an enemy in disguise), is the most encouraging piece of equipment 

on board. The man is a tough, powerful, stubborn-looking Norwegian (so we 

hear). He is said to have been born and raised in Iceland. We would later learn 

he owns a fleet of fishing trawlers similar to the Nanok. He has some thirty-seven 

years of North Atlantic sailing experience built into his medium-sized frame. He is 

said to be a lifelong personal friend of Rear Admiral (Iceberg) Smith. 

Maggie is thin of face. Brine sea spray has rimmed his eyes with white circles 

around blue, tempered-steel pupils. He has a square, cast iron jaw that juts 

forward of his chest. The sea must be made of his salt. He impresses me as 

18

eing damnably strong of will, demanding, clever and intelligent. I feel I have 

known him a long time and like him. 

We hurry to dress the Nanok in wartime costume. At the same time we try 

accustoming ourselves to our new environment. We also work at trying to acquire 

new buddies and most everyone is trying to become one. None of us has ever 

met any of the others previous to our gathering here. 

Nanok is pronounced "nahnook" by the Eskimos and means "polar bear." I 

believe some Coast Guard name-assigner goofed and "Nanok" should have 

been "nahnook." My early impression of the Nanok is that she is a puny wooden 

shoe from a dirty foot... An undernourished tugboat, ugly and without grace. She 

is cramped, damp, and tired, and the rotted fish odors are built into her thick, 

wooden skin. Compared to the beautiful and graceful Sea Cloud I served on 

board, the Nanok is an outhouse. 

We flush out her entrails, scrape out her bilge barnacles, dust her hold and paint 

her whatever. It should not be overdone because she may demand a coming out 

party. 

Shore liberties are most liberal. There is much more liberty than liberty spending 

money. For the most part, the deck crew’s quarters and galley combined are in 

the fo’c’s’le (forecastle), on level below main deck. Directly above crew’s quarters 

and at main deck level is the "head" (toilet, shower and laundry room) and the 

locker room. The fo’c’s’le floor plan is shaped like the head of an arrow, it’s point 

being the ship's prow. 

The gun deck tops the entire fo’c’s’le. On it is mounted port and starboard 20mm 

anti-aircraft guns. Between them and slightly forward of the 20mms is a World 

War I 3"/23 cannon. It is probably not worth the scrap iron it is made of. The aged 

blunderbuss has to be aimed like a bazooka. It may be an accurate weapon 

under certain conditions, but on our small vessel it would be worthless. The tiny 

Nanok would roll and pitch too much to properly aim it. Fairbanks says the gun is 

just for show. With it’s gun covers off it should probably scare the hell out of 

some Eskimo in a kayak. "Guns," our Third Class Gunner’s Mate Wilbur Owens, 

says the big gun will come in handy only if we to fight enemy army tanks at sea. 

He strongly suggests we do not dispose of any sling-shots we may have. I feel 

the gun will prove invaluable if we are ever forced to scuttle the Nanok. It’s 

weight would help sink her quickly. "Guns" is an ex-farmer from Harbinger, N.C. 

He is of medium height and build, has a heavy North Carolina tar heel drawl, an 

infectious grin and eyes so pale blue they are almost transparent. 

No end of excitement today. We hear Tobruk, city and port of Libya on the 

Mediterranean Sea, has fallen to the Nazis on June 22. Germany claims 25,000 

prisoners. I wonder who counted them. 

19

A long, black, two-masted schooner pulled into our slip with the intention of tying 

up just ahead of the Nanok. It’s pilot house apparently lost it’s communication 

with it’s engine room. We see a crew member dash from the pilot house, towards 

the engine room ladder aft (we later learned he was attempting to order "reverse 

engine.") The vessel fast approached the end of the wharf and the building that 

joins Constitution Wharf with the adjacent wharf. Too late! The wayward vessel 

crashed some twenty or more feet into the building! The structure partially 

collapsed onto the bow of the nameless vessel. Much effort is expended trying to 

extricate itself, and finally manages to do so. 

June 25, Thursday; Nanok. 

We take on board a hell of a lot of Arctic clothing. We receive full-length heavy 

woolen stockings, pull-over-the-head stocking caps with tails that become wraparound-the-neck 

mufflers. The caps are hood-type that have slits for the eyes, 

nostrils and mouth. There are heavy woolen gloves by the dozens. All of these 

things have been hand-made by elderly lady Salvation Army volunteers. I have a 

sneaking hunch we are going to be more than grateful to these unknown ladies. 

God bless all of them. 

We now know the direction the Nanok is to sail. I shiver at the thought. The idea 

of Arctic duty displeases me. I am of cold blood and very compatible with warm 

weather. Were it not for the "joke" of Mr. Armstrong, my boot camp company 

commander, I might have enjoyed some South Pacific tropical paradise. 

Just before being shipped out of boot camp, Armstrong mustered company "V" 

and informed us we were about to leave. "Which of you swab-jockeys want to go 

to the South Pacific?" About half of the company raised their hands, including 

me. "Okay," said Armstrong, "move over to this side. 

The rest of you galley punks want to go to the Atlantic, right?" There was a loud 

yell, "yeaaaahhh!" "Okay, those of you that want to go South Pacific are going to 

the North Atlantic. Those of you that want to go to the North Atlantic are going to 

the South Pacific instead." Our load of protests were laughed at. "I know you 

guys want to go as close to your homes as possible so that you can continually 

pester your skipper for short and long leaves of absence. We’re gonna make it a 

bit undesirable for you to do so." 

We were all furious, but Armstrong was the law. He had his favorite brown-noses 

strong-arm many of us individually at night for "voluntary" gift contributions. We 

were told it was customary for a commander’s company to provide such a gift 

when parting company... Sure! 

20

Even worse, several days before being shipped out, he offered us low-cost 

photographs of ourselves in uniform so we could mail them to our loved ones 

back home. In the evening after dark, we were loaded onto a stake truck and 

were driven to what we were told was Armstrong’s photo studio. Instead we were 

herded into his basement. Since we all had paid in advance, there was no choice 

but to follow through. 

There was a plain, dark colored bed sheet hung from the overhead joists to serve 

as a backdrop. A very small camera was mounted on a tripod some distance in 

front of the background curtain. We were singularly paraded between backdrop 

and camera. The camera would click and the next guy moved into the vacated 

position and the camera clicked again, again, again, etc. I knew very little about 

sophisticated cameras then, but I did know that film had to be inserted once in a 

while. This was never done. Suspicion grew in me but I was not about to accuse 

my tough company commander of anything. After all, I did not know how much 

power this guy had. If I were to accuse him of anything, he might have had the 

authority to send me to any rotten place on earth. 

The evening before we were to ship out, the pictures were "not ready yet," but 

they would be mailed to us as soon as they were. To my knowledge no one ever 

received a single photo. [Much later I was to learn that several months after I left 

boot camp, Armstrong accidentally shot himself to death while cleaning his pistol. 

He will be missed by a lot of people.] 

Reason for cheer! 

The Nanok welcomes it’s cook. He is the personable Russell "Rusty," "Cookie" 

Clark. He is handsome, tall, slender, wears a small moustache, infectious grin, 

and has a pleasant, enjoyable New England accent. Clark’s dishes don't get 

"washed," they get "warshed." Clark is not too happy about where the Nanok is 

"pahked." 

The trawler Belmont flies into Constitution Wharf’s slip. I can’t believe my eyes!! 

They apparently lost communication with their engine room the same as the twomaster 

did yesterday. The vessel went slamming into the same hole that the twomaster 

made yesterday. Now the hole is at least thirty feet deep! Maggie too is 

astounded! His eyes are opened wide as possible in disbelief! He asks Talledo: 

"Do you know the odds of such an accident happening to two different vessels 

two days in a row in exactly the same place? "No," Talledo replies, shaking his 

head negatively. Maggie asks him again and Talledo says, "no," and Maggie 

asks him the same question several times more until Talledo gives him an odd 

look and walks away. I ask Lindsay Jordan if he knows of a captain asking a man 

the same question five or six times in succession. Jordan says, "no." I ask him 

again and he gives me a grin and a hell of a shove. 

21

Several summers during my high school years I worked on the great lakes ore 

carrier Norman J. Kopmeir. There I learned quite a bit of seamanship. 

Somewhere over time I’d forgotten much about knots, splices, rules of the road, 

etc., so I began to read my Bluejacket’s Manual in earnest. Boot camp helped a 

lot but not enough for me to earn promotion to Coxswain, Petty Officer 3/c. This 

rating I was determined to acquire as soon as possible. I’m not sure whether it 

was because of the increase in pay or to make my wife Lucille and my family 

proud of me. I intend to speak to Maggie about my desire tomorrow. I want very 

much to learn what he expects a coxswain (coxs’n) to know and to be, then I’ll 

work my ass off to meet his standards. 

June 26, Friday; Nanok. 

After he enjoyed a satisfying breakfast, I decided it was a good time to approach 

the skipper about elevating me to the position of coxs’n. He invited me into his 

cabin to talk in private. He sat on the edge of his bunk, listens intently to my 

request as his steel eyes look through me. I tell him of my Great Lakes sailing 

experience, perhaps exaggerating a bit. I also point out the fact that I am leading 

seaman on board the Nanok, and the only seaman l/c. He seemed surprised and 

confused about my "leading seaman" inference. I mention it because I find no 

reference to "leading seaman" in the Bluejacket’s Manual. It was taken for 

granted that a leading seaman was automatically considered to be next in line for 

whatever deck force petty officer’s position he and his superiors agreed upon. I 

requested that the skipper consider me to be a striker for a coxs’n rating. 

Maggie questioned me at great length, asking me many things about ships. 

Luckily I had answers for all of the questions put to me. He appeared very 

impressed. He led me to believe my promotion would not be much more than a 

formality, that we have no coxs’n on board and that we could make good use of 

one. I was so elated I wrote and told Lucille that when I come home on leave, 

she might have to salute her husband. 

We worked like slaves today. The Nanok has an upper level superstructure just 

aft of midships. The forward part of top level is the pilot house and rear of the 

pilot house is the skipper’s quarters. He is therefore able to walk back and forth 

between pilot house and his cabin without going outdoors. In another structure at 

same level and a short distance behind the skipper’s quarters is the radio shack. 

On the same deck’s portside, just aft of the pilot house is a deck-level flat hatch 

cover. It is the entrance to the executive officer’s cubicle cabin. The cabin 

protrudes downward. Looking down into it, there are no portholes, just a dark 

void and a semi-visible top surface of a bunk. I cannot imagine how this dungeon 

is ventilated, and there is no air-conditioning on board the Nanok. 

22

Beneath the pilot house and below the main deck are quarters for the entire 

"black gang" as well as for the chief bos’n, motor machinist mate, radioman, 

carpenter, and yeoman. The companionway also leads forward to the engine 

room. For power, there is a trustworthy diesel engine that rattles the Nanok's 

bowels. Only a magician such as Chief Motor Machinist Mate Nelson (Mack) 

McClay and his black gang crew can squeeze eleven knots of speed from the 

bulky monster. At full throttle, Madam Nanok throbs in tempo of a trolley car. How 

anyone aft can ever get a full night’s sleep with the engine pounding away is 

beyond imagination. 

June 27, Saturday; Nanok, still at Constitution Wharf. 

Took liberty alone, feeling melancholy. I experience such feeling too often I fear. 

Went to pick up some special items of laundry from a Chinese hand laundry. I 

happened onto a scene at a most humorous time. After the incident I would learn 

the details. The mister has a weakness for gambling. The moment his hand 

wraps around a few customer dollars, he is off to a nearby bookmaker and 

promptly loses it in a bet on a dog race. 

At the time of my arrival, the man’s missus has him cornered and cowering in a 

far corner of the shop. She pounds on him with a small ironing board. He is 

screaming, for mercy I suppose. The woman apparently never heard of mercy. 

The ironing board splits down it’s length. She drops it to the floor and grabs a 

giant pair of tailoring scissors and beats on him with the handle. He pulls the 

scissors away from her. Both scream unpleasant Chinese words. He makes for 

the front door. She grabs the back of his thin, white trousers at the waist. His 

momentum carries him through the wooden screen door, minus the top portion of 

the back of his pants that have been torn off almost to the knees. The man has 

no underwear... Probably lost it gambling. His bare buttocks are exposed. He 

dashes up the street, shouting. Terrified onlooker pedestrians scatter. The 

missus returns to the shop to service me. She explains the affair in high-pitched 

Chinese which I do not understand a word of. I nod in agreement, I need my 

clean laundry. She cools down, speaks broken English, and I learn the entire 

story which I did not choose to know. 

My melancholia has been alleviated by the incident. I pop into the Silver Dollar 

Bar and hoist a few brews, then off to see the movie Reap the Wild Wind. It is 

very good and so are my spirits. Roamed through the open air fruit and 

vegetable market. It is very large. I understand bits of the Italian language and it 

sounds like that is the only language spoken here. 

June 28, Sunday; Nanok. 

23

John Petrenko, Jr., "Pete the tramp." Pete does not like being called tramp. 

Because of his massive size and strength, nobody ever does so in his 

presence... No one except Norman "Elmer" Comer who does so whenever 

agitated by Pete. 

Pete is taller than me and I am six foot two inches tall. His weight must top two 

hundred and fifty pounds. His face is that of a Roman gladiator, large and broad 

across the forehead. He has very dark, deep sunken eyes and strong, jutting 

chin. His dark hair is ever awry. His heavy, black whiskers make him a frightful 

looking antagonist. He could use a shave every hour. Added to this are high 

cheekbones and protruding ears. In repose, Pete is a dark, fierce looking giant, 

hence, Pete the tramp. 

Pete invites me to join him for a home-cooked Sunday dinner at his girlfriend's 

house. I jump at the opportunity. Not just for the dinner, but because I was 

curious to see the lady who found Pete attractive. I find it difficult to understand 

that any woman can find anything attractive in any man. It is obvious, however, 

that women do so. Perhaps women all have poor eye sight. 

Pete’s girlfriend lives in far-off Malden, Mass. We travel there by rail to the end of 

it’s line, then we walk a long way. The family Fitzgerald lives at the top of a tall 

hill. As we walk up it, Pete tells me of skullduggery that, if told to me earlier, I 

would not have come along. 

Margaret "Peggy" Fitz., the younger of two sisters, was the one who first invited 

Pete to the Fitzgerald home. According to Pete, Peggy was wild about him, but 

he preferred the older sister Mira. Pete just wanted me along to distract Peggy so 

he could spend time courting Mira. I reminded him that I was a happy, newlymarried 

man. This mattered not to Pete. He insisted "I don’t want you to make 

love to her ... just keep her occupied." As the damn fool that I sometimes can be, 

I reluctantly agreed. I married Lucille Edna Ketelhut on February 10th of this 

year and I am very much in love with her. 

The Fitzgeralds proved to be a very fine, close-knit family. It was their patriotism 

that prompted them to invite servicemen to their home for Sunday dinner. Mister 

was somehow related to a Mrs. Joseph P. Kennedy, wife of a strong Mass. 

politician I know nothing about. 

After dinner Peggy, Mira, Pete and I attended a movie. On the long walk back, I 

learn much from Peggy that Pete should have told me but did not. We walked in 

pairs, Pete and Mira in the lead. Peggy and I spoke of many light things. Peggy 

was very outgoing and vivacious, a temptation for any young man. I mentioned 

Pete’s obvious affection for Mira and Peggy laughed. She then told me that Pete 

was first attracted to her. He had become quite obnoxious and she had to tell him 

that her friendship toward him was platonic and nothing more, and never would 

24

e. If he has any romantic notions toward Mira, he would get the shock of his life 

because Mira disliked him intensely! 

So that was it! 

Pete was rejected by Peggy and was having a go at Mira! "That tramp!!" I 

muttered. I immediately felt ashamed for thinking so because I liked Pete a lot. 

After all I could not blame him for trying to find affection. He is an unmarried man 

and either sister was a prize. What was disturbing me more than Pete’s using 

me for his romantic purposes was Peggy’s seeming affection for me. She gently 

kneaded my hand in hers and snuggled as close as she could as we walked. I 

must confess I felt something more than just casual friendship at the moment. 

Perhaps I was misinterpreting her action. At any rate, no damage done because I 

had already made up my mind to see the Fitzgeralds no more. 

We stayed late, missed the last train from Malden to Boston. We hitchhiked part 

way, found a taxi, and arrived at the Nanok just in time for my midnight to 4am 

watch. Physically, I was a total loss but the dinner and company was worth it. 

June 29, Monday; Nanok, still at Constitution Wharf. 

Before parting yesterday, Peggy insisted I promise to return today. I phoned her 

home and told her mother I could not make the visit and could not tell her when I 

might do so again. Mrs. Fitzgerald sounded very disappointed. I believe both 

parents enjoyed my visit. All the more reason for a married man to stay away. 

Worked hard all day. Old buddy Boike’s trawler Atak left, supposedly bound for 

Portland, Maine. The vessel Belmont and another rusty tub tagged along with 

them. During wartime even the uppermost ship’s officers did not always know 

their specific destination. This was for security purposes. This secrecy was 

accomplished in a variety of ways. When I sailed on board the U.S.C.G. Cutter 

Sea Cloud, it was said the skipper received sailing instructions in the form of a 

large stack of sealed and numbered envelopes. Envelope number one had a 

time and date printed on it’s face. On that time and date the envelope was to be 

removed from the ship’s safe and opened in the captain’s presence and that of 

his top officers. The envelope’s contents instructed the captain of time of 

departure, course to steer, distance and or time to do so, and sometimes even 

speeds at which to travel. It could even contain instructions as to what time, date 

and location envelope two was to be opened. Thus very few on board would ever 

really know where they were going, time of arrival or duty to perform. It follows 

that each envelope would also contain emergency instructions. In event the ship 

was about to be taken by the enemy, there would be instructions for quickly 

destroying the balance of envelopes, possibly by shredding. Whether such 

25

procedures were fact or fiction is unknown to me. It is obvious the procedure 

would have merit at least under some circumstances. 

Ashore for a few beers with Pete. 

June 30, Tuesday; Nanok. 

I can't imagine why I did it, but from the Nanok I phoned Peggy just to say hello. 

She sounded quite excited and insisted that I come to visit immediately. I told 

myself it was just the home cooking that beckoned me. Even as I spoke to her, I 

heard some of the crew were being sent to a place called "Price’s neck" near 

Newport, Rhode Island, for gunnery practice. It was to be on 20mm anti-aircraft 

and 50 caliber machine guns and other such weapons. I also heard I was in the 

first group to go. Peggy reluctantly excused me. Bos'n Robbins, Schafer, Charlie 

Rolston, "Guns" Owens, Petrenko and I received our pay, caught the train to 

Newport, then by open truck to Price’s Neck. 

July 1942 

There are no longer any doubts. Rumor is now fact. We are bound for 

Greenland! 

July 1, Wednesday; Price’s Neck. 

Schafer is a Radioman 1/c. He is of medium height, slender, rather dark-skinned, 

near bald. A very nervous, excitable and introverted individual. He reminds me of 

a cowed dog being kicked into a corner. I am very surprised when he begins one 

of his very rare conversations with me. He suggested just he and I go into town in 

the evening for a few drinks. He strikes me as being lonesome as hell and in 

need of someone to talk to. Not many of the crew pay any attention to him or 

converse with him. Probably because he makes no attempt to be friendly. I tell 

him "OK," I would join him later in the day. 

Spent first half of day assembling and disassembling 20mm guns until we were 

able to do so in total darkness. A very useful talent we are told. 

Second half of day is spent firing the guns. The pilot of a small, slow-flying 

military aircraft tows a very large, cigar-shaped air sock, tethered to the rear of 

his plane with a very long line. He flies from left to right for a very long distance, 

then reverses his course and passes before us from right to left. We all fire away 

26

at the sock but tracer shells show we never come close to hitting the damn thing 

except for once or twice. After several passes the pilot lands somewhere. Our 

instructor receives a phone call telling him that the pilot refuses to fly anymore. 

He claimed our missiles were scorching the back of his neck instead of hitting the 

sock towed far astern. What is the use of being able to disassemble and 

reassemble 20mm guns in the dark when we can’t hit a bull in the ass in broad 

daylight!? We need much more practice. 

From then on, large helium-filled balloons are released one at a time and we fire 

at them. They ascend skyward and drift away in the distance, most of them 

untouched. It is obvious that our gunnery training is necessarily speeded up far 

beyond practicality. We are merely being taught fundamentals. The war cannot 

wait for us to become proficient. In all probability the tiny Nanok will become a 

target. As mentioned before, it is doubtful that any valuable torpedoes will be 

wasted on her. If, however, the Nanok should ever meet a couple of enemy 

canoes or rowboats, we’ll show them!! 

Schafer and I enjoy several copies of a new cocktail called "the zombie." They 

consist of many layers of various colored liqueurs, gently floated atop one 

another in a tall glass. The drink was said to be so potent that bartenders were 

advised not to serve more than one per customer. Our bartender must not have 

been informed of this rule. Schafer and I enjoy two each and would like more but 

they were too expensive (but delicious). 

The more Schafer gets, the more he rambles on about his mother. I’m not sure 

whether he misses her badly, or if she cannot bear it without him. I understand 

that he is her only son and sole support and she is quite ill. There is no doubt that 

he is very worried about her. His elephant tears flood the channels between nose 

and puffed red cheeks. At one point my eyes become watery too. I decide to 

leave him but discover I have lost my wallet. A young waitress finds and returns it 

to me. I reward her with a wet kiss diluted with a tear or two. She seemed sorry 

to have returned the wallet. 

I stay long enough to have a couple more drinks, play a few cards, win a few 

bucks and spend it on a sheath knife and a taxi. I really hadn’t the slightest idea 

where I lost Schafer but didn’t give a rat’s ass. He depressed me and I am 

homesick enough without worrying about his Mom too. Homesickness has been 

visibly growing aboard the Nanok since day one. There are signs of it on many 

faces. 

July 2, Thursday; Price’s Neck. 

Talk about homesickness, wow!!! 

27

Maurice (Robby) (Bos’n) Robbins relates to me a tear-filled story of his Mom’s 

situation. In addition to his Mom being quite ill and elderly, she lives alone. Her 

only company and assistance is Robby’s wife who happens to be pregnant. She 

has no auto and has to walk a great distance almost daily to look after Robby’s 

mom. I don’t understand because if Robby explained his situation to our 

superiors, I believe he would be given home-base duty. Radioman Schafer’s 

situation is almost a carbon copy of Robby’s. 

I break away from Robby because my sympathy is upsetting me. I converse with 

Radioman 1/c Charles A. (Rolly) Rolston. He too is homesick and lays his sorrow 

onto me, yipes!! I now have an idea how my Catholic priest feels when listening 

to confessions. Only Guns Owens manages to stay dry-eyed out of all I have 

spoken to. He must not be married, has no sweetheart, and is an incubator 

person without parents. 

I work on 50 caliber machine guns and fire two of them. One jammed but I 

managed to hit a balloon anyway. We are all experiencing some degree of 

accuracy now. 

The aircraft carrier Ranger passes nearby. She is a super magnificent piece of 

hardware! She blots out the entire horizon. I would take a pay cut just to serve 

and scramble across her decks! What beauty! What class! What awesome 

power! 

Guns keeps us awake half the night telling joke after joke, embellished with his 

delightful tar-heel-twang accent. He continues to drawl on as I fall asleep. 

July 3, Friday; Nanok, at Constitution Wharf. 

Spent early morning firing guns until my ears turned inside out. We caught the 

truck and train back to Boston and the Nanok. Flirted with four pretties on the 

train and received invitation for weekend house party on the beach. 

Been stationed aboard the Nanok twelve days now. Getting restless to move on 

and hopefully find something to help obliterate homesickness. Got cleaned up 

and went to visit my good friend Howard (Howie) Fox, the bartender in the 

Brunswick Hotel’s basement bar. 

I enjoyed a chat with Howie and had a couple glasses of beer at the bar. I sat 

near an outer corner, around the corner sat an older man that was probably in his 

late fifties. I don’t feel like conversing but he does so we converse. After learning 

I am of Polish decent, he said he was too, but his family came from Russia rather 

than Poland. 

28

"What a small world, eh?" he says. I didn’t think both of us being of Polish 

descent made it a "small world." 

There are people one takes on an immediate dislike to. To me, this is one of 

those people. I did not care for his shifty, furtive, back and forth, crafty glances. 

He had a fat, squat, dumpy body, black clothing with much old food rubbed into 

the lapels, nor his know-it-all attitude. He claimed to have very recently painted 

President Roosevelt’s portrait at the Whitehouse. I could not imagine F.D.R. 

sitting in the same room with this man for long periods of time. His body odor was 

terrible. We got around to discussing the war and try to guess how long it might 

last. I guessed and hoped it would not last very long. He guessed it could go on 

forever, or until the last human on earth was dead. His guess annoyed me very 

much because it tended to destroy my hope for the war to end while I am still 

alive. We began to argue about it. Since I was quite worked up, he decided to 

back-off some. He pouted because I refused to believe his guess. He was silent 

for about two minutes, then said, "it makes no difference anyway. When this war 

ends, the United States will have to go to war again!" 

"With whom!?" I demanded. 

"Russia!" he said, a crafty smile on his face. 

"You must be a fool!" I replied, "Russia is our ally!" 

"Now, yes!" he said. 

"I think you're crazy, mister!" I reply. 

"Am I?! Oh am I!?" he blurted. "You’re not only going to war with Russia, you’re 

going to lose!" he said, stabbing a forefinger into the bar’s surface for emphasis. 

Something inside me shook with anger. 

"What makes you so sure?" I asked. 

"Because America has no guts, that’s why!" 

I was on the verge of losing complete control of myself. I wanted to beat the 

man’s face into pulp. Then he added goadingly: "You’re mad as hell at me, aren’t 

you!?" 

"You damn well know it!" I am almost shouting now. 

"Well, why don’t you hit me!?" he demanded. "If I was as mad at you as you are 

at me ... I’d hit you! That’s why America will lose the next war which will be with 

Russia, no guts, like you!!" 

29

We now had the attention of everyone in the bar, including Howie. He sternly 

asked us to, "keep it down for crissake!" I was embarrassed, and even though 

this hateful man was possibly three times my age and obviously of very little 

physical strength, or perhaps because of it, I could not prompt myself to hit him. I 

had no doubt whatsoever that I could destroy him in two or three punches, and I 

did not fear being hurt by him. Instead of fighting, I chose to leave the bar. I spun 

about and headed for the exit. He was still shouting! 

"Americans have power but no guts!!" 

I knew I would never forgive myself for walking away from him. The incident 

would surely begin a long period of self examination. Was I a coward? 

Something in the outer me said ‘hell no!!’ At the same time, something very deep 

in me asked, ‘Are you sure? Are you? Why didn’t you hit the bastard?! ’cause he 

was so old? Shouldn’t there ever be justification for hitting a person just because 

they are older? Of course not. You should be ashamed of yourself for thinking 

so... But why should I feel ashamed, dammit!? Would I have enjoyed a feeling of 

victory if that old man ended up lying flat on the floor at my feet? Would the bar 

patrons have applauded me?’ 

I knew I would retain conflicting thoughts for a long time to come. I hurried back 

to the bar to do what I should have done. I wanted much to kill him! But why did I 

experience such relief when I learned no one had noticed his leaving? 

The incident did something awful to my self confidence. From now on I would 

wonder and fear that maybe I am a coward. Worse, that while being a coward, I 

would become a laughing stock. I would be ridiculed. 

I began to study the men whom I were to sail with. Mentally I evaluated each of 

them. Were the big, tough-looking ones like Petrenko really as tough as they 

appeared or was toughness just a veneer? Were the meek and mild ones like 

Elmer Comer really just mice? Or was his exterior a veneer also? I know that I 

should not have, but I paid a surprise visit to Peggy’s house. It helped lighten my 

mood. 

July 4, Saturday; Nanok. 

Independence Day! 

Anniversary of America’s independence since 1776 and here we are at war. 

Shame on all mankind. 

I spend the first half of the day stowing ammunition into Nanok's hold. A tough, 

heavy chore. Schafer says it is to assure us of continued independence. 

30

July 5, Sunday; Nanok. 

We wear summer white uniforms for the first time. Nice and cool. Went to movie 

with Sully Jones, then food, then to Buddies Club on Boston Common. After a 

couple of dances, a pretty young miss talked my leg off. I excused myself, went 

to the head and snuck off to the Nanok. 

July 6, Monday; Nanok. 

Evening at the Fitz’s for a light dinner. Peggy burned her leg pretty bad. Spilled 

hot grease on it. "Billy the kid," a sailor from Kent, England, played piano for a 

sing-along. He’s here at Mira’s invitation. Billy and I get a lift to the railway. 

July 7, Tuesday; Nanok. 

Worked hard all day, wrote letter to Lucille, then phoned her in the evening. I 

don’t tell her about the Fitzgeralds because she is sure to get the wrong idea. I 

haven’t mentioned Lucille to the Fitzgeralds either. I fear there would be no more 

homey visits or dinners. 

A very young girl came to the small U.S.C.G. vessel tied nearby. She is looking 

for a sailor who told her his name is Charlie Noble. She is pregnant and Charlie 

is the father. This proves to be a humorous joke. Charlie turns out to be Chollie 

Noble which is the sailor’s name for the galley stove pipe. The miss is told there 

is no Charlie Noble aboard. She leaves in a burst of tears. I wonder how many 

more like her are looking for their Charlie. 

Albert (Stan) Staneczak argues heatedly with George (Fair) Fairbanks. Stan is an 

annoying know-it-all and believes he must constantly prove to himself that he 

indeed knows it all. Both men claim they know the amount of feet there is in a 

"shot" of chain. George insists it is one length and Stan insists otherwise. I don’t 

offer an opinion. I don’t choose to become involved. Besides, I don’t know. One 

day I will ask Talledo. 

Stan is much taller than fair. He is considerably younger, stronger, hard, 

muscular and aggressive. His lips curl back and he speaks through clenched 

teeth. His square face seethes in anger. His forward-falling straight hair creates a 

Hitler image. On the other hand, Fairbanks is comparatively smaller in stature 

and somewhat frail. I cannot imagine how he managed to pass C.G. physical 

requirements. Too, he is the oldest seaman aboard. He has to be more than fifty 

31

years of age. The Coast Guard has never drafted anyone, and it is difficult to 

imagine why he would have voluntarily enlisted. 

George has a thin, hatchet face. It is dark, heavily freckled, and at times his small 

eyes are invisible in their dark, deep canyons. His face quivers nervously and his 

straight-up hair quivers even more. 

Stan tries to intimidate George but George is a man and refuses to be browbeaten 

by the bully. Stan makes a move to strike George in the face, but Roach 

steps in between the two men and grabs hold of Stan’s cocked, right wrist. The 

day is now ruined for everyone in the fo’c’s’le. Elmer Comer whispers, "if he" 

(meaning Stan) ever pulls that sort of shit on me, I’ll cold-cock him!" I have to 

smile. Comer is about the same size as Fairbanks. I felt sure Stan could devour 

Comer in two bites. 

July 8, Wednesday; Nanok. 

Stayed aboard, washed clothes, developing a summer cold, I think. 

July 9, Thursday; Nanok. 

Worked hard. Have cold and sore throat. Talked myself into going to the 

Fitzgerald’s, for sympathy and pampering I guess, and I get it. The Fitz’s insisted 

I stay overnight (hot dog!). 

Rumor is strong that we may finally ship out tomorrow morning. That would be 

nice. I want to stop going to the Fitz’s and can’t get myself to do it. Shipping out 

is the answer. 

July 10, Friday; Nanok. 

Hot dog! 

We got a washing machine today. No more having to wash clothes by hand! My 

head cold is so bad I find it difficult to concentrate on the most simplest things. 

We hear the Russians have torpedoed the giant German battleship Tirpitz 

yesterday in the Barent’s Sea. Unfortunately she was not sunk. She is Hitler’s 

pride and joy. Sinking her would be a severe blow to the nutzy leader’s ego and 

confidence. 

32

July 11, Saturday; Nanok. 

Comer, Jonesy, Chips and I go to a movie, then to Boston Commons for some 

dancing with sweet smelling partners. Later to the Silver Dollar Saloon for beer, 

then back to the Nanok. I accidentally dozed off for a few moments while on 

watch in the pilot house... Bad boy!! Never again. 

July 12, Sunday; Portland, Maine. 

We leave Constitution Wharf. Nanok bids Boston "goodbye." 

Running alongside a large excursion type vessel full of women, we wave 

"goodbye" at one another. Why are women so friendly whenever they are out of 

arm's reach? 

Outside Boston Harbor we heave-to for four hours awaiting arrival of the 

U.S.C.G. Cutter North Star. We rendezvous and leave together but lose contact 

with one another later in the day. We are carrying all sorts of machinery and 

parts thereof. We even have an airplane engine aboard. 

We anchor outside of Portland, Maine for the night. So far, very little "spit and 

polish" on board the Nanok. How nice ... but could it be dangerous? 

July 13, Monday; Portland. 

The hook is pulled up, Nanok enters the harbor and the hook is dropped. 

Had four to eight a.m. watch in pilot house. Saw the U.S. battlewagon 

Massachusetts and a dozen or so of the "can type" vessels coming in. It is one 

thing to see a movie of a battlewagon, but quite another to see one with your own 

eyes. They are awesome in all respects. You realize their gigantic size when you 

learn the tiny ants skittering across her decks are actually men. 

Liberty ashore. Wrote to Lucille at the U.S.O. [United Services Organization], 

then went drinkin’ with Fairbanks and Guns Owens. Not a barroom as such to be 

found. Danced and drank a bit at a second-story dance hall called Oriental 

Gardens. 

Caught the last liberty boat to the Nanok at one a.m. Boat is chock-a-block full 

with drunks, half drunks, and just stupid-looking sleepy swabbies. Although he 

33

denies it, Petrenko missed the last boat and did what had to be done. He tied his 

clothes in his neckerchief and swam out in total darkness to the Nanok, about a 

quarter of a mile with the sack of clothes tied to the back of his neck. Who knows 

how he made it in the cold water with unlighted, small, motorized boats dashing 

back and forth. If he was drunk, he was stone sober when Elmer Comer helped 

him on board. 

July 14, Tuesday; Portland. 

Son of a bitch! What a day! 

It started off when I was assigned the job of red-leading the exec’s cubicle. 

Cookie Clark is in a rotten mood and argues without reason. Then Talledo and I 

hit it off badly. I want desperately to please the man but find it impossible to do 

so. He hisses when he speaks to me. He is always gruff and speaks in caustic 

tones. He is a continual irritation to me and apparently I to him. 

Al Staneczak is no help. He finds delight in goading the Chief at my expense. He 

injects such things as, "I don’t think he heard your orders, Chief." Or, "Maybe that 

job is beneath his class, Chief." Or, "Maybe he thinks he should have your job 

and you have his," etc., etc., whenever the opportunity to do so presents itself. 

Dammit, I’m learning to dislike Stan too! I ask him on several occasion to cease, 

but he gives me an indignant, hurt look, and says, "Geez, I’m only kiddin’ around 

fella!" His "kiddin’ around" I know, is costing me points with Talledo. Stan wants 

to very much to become a coxswain too, and I can appreciate that. But maybe he 

feels that the Nanok can afford only one coxswain and wants himself to fill the 

position, I don't know. 

Since I am the leading seaman on board, normally, the bos’n should consult with 

me when lengthy jobs are to be done. I would be expected to take care of the 

lesser details and minor instructions. I would thereby be in strong contention for 

promotion to coxs’n. No such recognition has been afforded me. Much of this 

problem, I feel, lies with the skipper. He exercises no visible chain of command 

which is normal Coast Guard practice. So far, all activities on board the Nanok 

are informal. While this is a comfortable way for subordinates to live, it creates a 

multitude of other problems. Someone once said that familiarity breeds contempt 

and indeed it does. It may sound friendly for a senior officer to address his Bos’n 

1/c as "buddy," but "buddy" may rightfully be expected to address the senior 

officer as "pal" or some other such ridiculous designation. Such lack of discipline 

and formality could lead to subordinates ignoring authority and questioning 

commands. 

Example, Bos’n 1/c Robbins is shown very little respect by the skipper and 

therefore Robbins receives but a minimum of respect from the seamen beneath 

34

him. Deck activities are often performed without informing him at all. Many on 

board the Nanok grumble about the captain’s disciplinary looseness. Robbins, of 

course, Fireman Abe Brill, Petrenko, Jonesy, Fairbanks, Comer, and others. 

As mentioned before, many believe our skipper received very little, if any, formal 

Coast Guard training whatsoever. Rumors remain that he is a close, personal 

friend of Admiral "Iceberg" Smith who supposedly coaxed Maggie into the Coast 

Guard. Possibly because of Maggie's vast North Atlantic experience. It is further 

rumored that Maggie agreed to enter the service only if he did not have to take 

foolish training. I must add that none of the crew have any proof of such 

allegations. From the onset, the skipper demonstrated nothing but disdain for 

formality, discipline, and chain of command. He mentioned on several occasions 

that ratings should be abolished and we should all simply be crew members. He 

was once asked by Talledo, how would we differentiate between crew members. 

The captain answered, "by the amount of pay they would be getting. Ratings are 

for boy scouts!" he said. 

He often referred to Chief Boatswain’s Mate George Talledo as "the Bos’n." On 

several occasions he had given me oral messages to convey to Chief Motor 

Machinist Mate Nelson McClay and said I should take them to "the mechanic." I 

did not mind too much because my rating was a minor one, but I did hope to 

wear a coxswain’s "crow" on my right arm with a pride of achievement. Too, I 

fretted at the thought of being overlooked for a pay raise that was so important to 

my wife. 

News of my poor relationship with Talledo would surely reach the captain and 

could well destroy my promotion possibilities. With hindsight it was easy for me to 

realize I should have never mentioned the possibility of my becoming a petty 

officer. It was very wrong for me to have done so. Something inside me said both 

Talledo and Maggie could become insurmountable challenges for me to 

overcome. I vow to prove my seaworthiness to both of them. It should be as easy 

as conquering Hitler. 

July 15, Wednesday; Portland. 

Oho! 

Our executive officer has finally arrived. He is a Reserve Ensign named Dicastro. 

He identifies himself thus, and does not mention his given name. Perhaps he has 

none? He is of medium height and weight and has sand colored hair. His face is 

round and has a frozen expression of a pampered, spoiled child. He immediately 

makes it clear that he is a tough, gung-ho, spit-and-polish yokel. Methinks rules 

and regulations may arrive in quantity. 

35

Talledo still on my tail! 

July 16, Thursday; At sea, northbound. 

Took on a load of fresh water from a large freighter in the harbor. I do not learn 

it’s name. We tie up alongside of it and pump water directly from it’s tank into 

ours. Maggie promises we will not always get water this easily. 

Wrote a letter to Lucille but did not mail it because I am not on shore liberty 

today. Washed clothes, practiced semaphore with another ship that is at anchor. 

Also sculled a skiff around the harbor. There are a great many seals frolicking in 

the harbor. When the tide is low, a number of hulls of very large, concrete, World 

War I vessels can be seen. They were built to be used as open barges to be 

towed laden with war materials. These were possibly leftovers. They were 

expected to remain intact for just one ocean crossing. My mind could not accept 

that concrete vessels could be loaded and floated across the ocean intact. I was 

assured it was true. 

Our diet of entertainment on board the Nanok consists of studying, dice-rolling, 

card playing, and group singing, take your choice, but no radio. My three 

harmonicas come in handy even though I don't play very well. 

Since Dicastro came on board yesterday, Cookie Clark became restricted from 

any liberty until further notice because he was a fatal five minutes late serving 

chow. Can you believe that! Dicastro was meaner than hell with Clark! Too bad. 

Clark is one of the most conscientious workers on board. Privately, Clark tells me 

of four or five things Dicastro can do with his liberty. None of Clark’s suggestions 

are practical or even possible. Dicastro, I'm sure, would have a most difficult time 

trying to do as Clark suggested. 

I got the four to eight p.m. watch. The hook is hauled in and we leave Portland 

about 5:15 p.m. I wheel the Nanok out of the harbor. Bos’n Robbins assists 

because the Nanok controls are very stiff. We are one of a convoy of five 

vessels, the Nanok being the smallest. All of the others are at least three times 

our size. I’d give my left nostril to sail on board any of them. 

July 17, Friday; at sea. 

Passed Halifax, Nova Scotia, bound north and east. Saw many porpoises. Frisky 

and fun to watch. Reading King's Row, good story. Practiced firing 20mm antiaircraft 

guns. 

36

Saw whales spouting some distance away. Stan and Fairbanks thought they 

were periscopes and reported same to the bridge. A good laugh was had by all 

(except Dicastro). Breezes carried terrible odor of whale breath to the Nanok. 

Both whales and Nanok could use mouth wash. 

Dicastro is a pain in the ass! 

Believe it or not, he has done away with night lunches! Too, there is to be no 

more than two slices of bacon per man at breakfast. If we are to have jelly or jam, 

there is to be no desert at that meal! Where did this asshole come from? All 

American vessels, civilian and military, have always afforded night lunch to crew 

members when they complete night watches. Crew members grumble but none 

want to go over the head of Dicastro to complain to the skipper. 

There are no longer any doubts. Rumor is now fact. We are bound for 

Greenland! Ye gads! That’s the top of planet earth! 

July 18, Saturday; At sea. 

Saw flotilla of many vessels including a few submarines. They must be ours, 

we’re not firing at ’em. Drilled on 20mm guns again today. Dicastro began cutting 

off the gun covers because, according to his calculations, we were a bit late in 

reaching our battle stations after "general quarters" was sounded. 

No matter how quick we respond, he is not satisfied, and begins slashing away 

with his razor-sharp sheath knife! Whatever time it takes us, he reduces the time 

allowed by a few seconds off his stop watch. It mattered not that Fairbanks came 

directly from the toilet seat and holding up his unbuttoned dungarees as he 

climbed the gun deck ladder using one free hand. If Dicastro continues thus we 

will have to arrive before we start! 

Some of the vessels with us are the Driller, a tanker, and the Hydrographer. Our 

two flanking escorts are the cutter Mohawk and the North Star. We expect to be 

in Sydney, Nova Scotia, on the morrow. 

July 19, Sunday; Sydney, Nova Scotia. 

We arrive late in the p.m. and drop the hook. Steel mill furnaces light up the sky 

like a cloud of blood. Too late for shore liberty. 

It grows very dark before Maggie decides to change our anchorage position, so it 

is "up anchor" for the move. My station is at the anchor-lift winch on the main 

37

deck just forward of the pilot house. In the now nearly total darkness I hurry to 

the narrow space between winch and pilot house superstructure and the manheight 

drum on which the starboard anchor cable is wound. 

I bump headlong into someone in the darkness. The someone begins to cuss 

me. It is Dicastro! 

"What in hell are you doing here!?" he demands. 

"Chief Talledo assigned me to this station whenever the anchor is to be lifted or 

dropped now and in the future." 

"Get your ass on the gun deck and help them cat the anchor," he growls. 

"But sir, this is my station!" I protest. 

"Your station is where I want it to be," he snarls. "And right now it’s on the 

fo’c’s’le head, now git!." 

"Sir," I say, "winch is very tricky, sir." 

"Go, dammit!!" he screams, so I go. 

If the clutch control wheel is not turned very, very slowly, the clutch catches or 

grabs suddenly, and the anchor chain is yanked suddenly. Whoever may be 

handling the anchor at the time, could be injured. As I get to the anchor catting 

station on the bow of the ship, Talledo asks: "What in hell are you doing here!?" 

"Dicastro sent me," I reply. 

Talledo mumbles angrily. 

There is a six-foot-high davit on the Nanok's bow. It has a rope falls hanging from 

it’s arched-down end. When the 500-pound Baldt-type anchor is raised from the 

sea-bottom, up to the shipside opening that guides the moving chain, the hoisting 

is stopped. The hanging rope falls is attached to the anchor’s shackle. "Slack" in 

the chain is shouted for, so that the chain will slide back out of the guide [hawsehole] 

making it possible for the anchor to be lifted with the rope falls and hand 

power, above the top surface of the deck. It is lifted high enough to clear the top 

of an eighteen-inch-high cable-rail that is intended to prevent personnel from 

accidentally sliding overboard. 

It is very dark, the anchor is still outboard of the ship. Dicastro has hoisted it 

smoothly. No sudden jerking, etc. As the shackled top of the anchor reached the 

height of the hawse-hole, the hook at the end of the rope falls is attached to the 

shackle. Robbins yells to Dicastro for "slack" and Dicastro responds. We 

38

commence pulling the anchor above the deck and the top of the safety cable-rail. 

We begin to swing the anchor inboard the several feet it takes to clear the safety 

rail and reach the anchor’s on-deck cradle in which we are to tie the anchor 

down. There is not quite enough slack in the chain to permit us to pull the anchor 

inboard far enough. 

Again Robbins yells for "slack." 

Dicastro responds with "what?" 

"Slack, slack off!" shouts Robbins. 

Instead of slacking-off as requested, Dicastro takes-up on the chain and yanks 

the anchor back over the side! Because of the sudden, unexpected movement, 

we too were being pulled overboard! My left hand was in an unfortunate location, 

the middle finger was smashed between the anchor and one of the safety-rail’s 

stanchions. The flesh was torn loose to the first joint on the palm side of the 

finger. The flesh was folded forward like an extended fingernail. I lay below while 

the others finish catting the anchor. I fold the torn end of the finger back over the 

exposed bone. 

Soon Jones and Robbins come below. I feel no pain, only numbness. I do not 

experience fear, yet I feel about to pass out and say so. I am seated and Jones 

forces my head down between my knees. It helps and I remain conscious. 

Robbins, seeing the amount of blood I was losing, went to Dicastro for 

permission to take me to a doctor on board one of the larger vessels anchored 

nearby. Before leaving, he wrapped the finger in a clean white sock. 

Robbins returned, looking dumbfounded. He said, "I told Dicastro about your 

finger and told him you should see a doctor right away. Know what he told me? 

He said ‘tell him to put some iodine on it and wrap it in something’." 

Robbins ranted and raved, calling Dicastro's indifference every foul name that 

came to mind. 

"He had no god-damned business at the winch in the first place. It’s too tricky to 

operate without practice! You know that ’ski!" 

I nodded affirmatively. 

"I’m going to see Captain Mag," shouted the infuriated Robbins. 

I cautioned him not to do so. Dicastro did not strike me as one who would ever 

forgive or forget anyone who might go over his head to see the skipper. The 

wrapped finger appears to have stopped bleeding. I go to bed but do not sleep 

39

well. The pain finally defeats numbness. My entire hand hurts like hell! It is a 

throbbing pain. 

July 20, Monday; Sydney, Nova Scotia. 

Ensign Dicastro caught hell from Maggie for not allowing me to see a doctor. I 

suspect Robbins told Maggie about my injury but he does not admit it. I am 

ordered to see the doctor on board the North Star anchored nearby. 

John "Dreams" Connors is quite a fellow. His pink cheeks are chubby with fine, 

pinfeather fuzz. He appears to be sixteen-years-old but I feel sure he must be at 

least twenty. John is dubbed "Dreams" because of his ability to fall asleep 

anywhere at anytime at the drop of an eyelid. Even when pulling on his boots, he 

manages to fall asleep. 

Dreams rows me over to the North Star in our smallest dory. I climb up to the 

ship’s high deck by means of a Jacob’s Ladder. Dreams chooses to wait in the 

dory even though the waves are quite high. The dory bobs like a cork. It appears 

to be hardly more than a barnacle on the side of the giant vessel. From the dory 

bow a light manila line leads straight up and it’s end is secured to the inboard 

side of the gunwale. 

Under the fluoroscope we see the bone of my left, middle finger is broken off 

diagonally and there is a considerable separation. The doctor cleanses the 

wound and tapes the finger to a wooden tongue depressor that serves as a 

splint. Doctor says the finger will require a long time to heal because of the bone 

separation. 

I am away a short period of time. When I return and look down at the dory, I see 

Dreams sitting wedged in it’s prow. His head rests on his forearms that lay 

across the top of his drawn-up knees. Waves are banging the dory against the 

side of the North Star. Dreams is in dreamland, fast asleep! Awake, Connors is 

hell-on-wheels when it comes to work. He is an excellent seaman. I let out a war 

whoop. Connors jerks awake. Obviously he is disoriented for a moment. My face 

is turned away so he cannot see me stifle a laugh. 

Later in the day Talledo and Dicastro lock horns. Dicastro attempted to order 

Talledo to do some degrading, menial task. Talledo tells Dicastro to "shove it!" 

He’s been around too long to eat crap. 

Near evening I ask Dicastro if I could return to the doctor for some pain killer. He 

says I am a sissy and a little pain will help make a man out of me. I hope so, then 

I’ll kick the shit out of him! Again he refuses to allow me to see the doc. 

40

Skipper allows us evening liberty. I sure can use a few pain-killer shots. The only 

drinkin’ place to be found is a sort of hall that is chock-a-block full of servicemen, 

mostly sailors. The hall is so large it is near impossible to see all four walls. I’m 

sure there are walls but most are hidden behind curtains of cigarette smoke. It is 

also near impossible to estimate the number of drinkers in the joint, or even the 

amount of tables. Waitresses are the only females in the place. Their backsides 

must be swollen from all the pinches and feels they get. Can’t imagine how they 

tolerate it but they do—with smiles yet. 

Maybe they are just super patriotic—of course they received many tips. They 

take your table’s order, disappear in the distant smoke wall and later reappear 

with a tray full of quart-sized bottles of beer. The beer is lousy, but the bootleg 

hootch being sold by some half-drunk sailor for five bucks a bottle is quite an 

effective pain killer. It tastes much like the rat’s urine my brother used to cook up. 

My finger feels much better. 

At all times, somewhere in this cavernous joint, a fist fight is going on, way off in 

one direction or another. As soon as one battle is halted, another begins 

elsewhere. They are fun to watch—from a distance. It is a real-life series of 

comedies—especially since all contestants are hardly sober enough to stand. 

At a table to my rear sat a group of the largest French submariners imaginable. 

They wear dark berets with shiny buckles. Their wide-open V-shaped blousefronts 

display horizontal, candy-striped undershirts. While my attention is focused 

on a scuffle some fifty feet away, mayhem explodes behind me. My chair is 

kicked out from under me, by accident I suppose, I fall to the floor. As I arose, I 

become aware that all of the submariners are fighting one another. It was none of 

my affair so I chose to leave. Before I could do so, one of them struck me an 

uppercut that landed just at the bottom of my rib cage. I swear, my six-foot-two 

inch body was lifted completely off the floor. I flew backward across the top of 

one table, on to the floor beyond and under the next table. I remained conscious 

but had to fight for breath. The fight raged on and expanded. I was kicked a 

number of times by swift, shuffling feet. As soon as possible, I crawled on hands 

and knees thirty feet or so, arising beyond the perimeter of the fight, and 

staggered out of the place. I caught the 0100 liberty boat back to the Nanok and 

had no problem falling asleep. My finger did not hurt anymore. 

July 21, Tuesday; Sydney. 

Once more my finger feels as though it has been slammed into the breach of a 

closing cannon. Because of my injury, Talledo told me to take the day off and 

relax. I lay in my sack reading. Dicastro finds me and orders me to "turn to" and 

do some chipping, scraping, red-leading, and painting. 

41

I tell him that Talledo told me to take the day off. 

Dicastro says, "I am your chief and I say ‘move!’" 

Rust forms on the Nanok's steel fittings almost as fast as it can be chipped off, or 

so it seems. Someday someone will invent a ship that will require no paint and 

will win the undying gratitude of every man-jack that ever swung a chipping 

hammer or wire brush. It is too painful for me to use my left hand at all, and 

impossible to do the job with one hand. 

The crew managed to offload the aircraft engine so we begin to secure for sea. 

Don’t know when we may be near a doctor in the future so again I ask for 

permission to go. Dicastro again refuses to allow me to do so. I couldn't believe 

it. My entire arm throbs with pain. Dicastro said we hadn’t the time to spare for 

"unnecessary sick calls." I don’t dare go over his head to Maggie. I’ll learn how to 

live with this son-of-a-bitch-bastard! In civilian life he was a mattress sewer—that 

figures! 

We kiss Sydney "goodbye" and head north into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. 

Coldest day to date. Porpoises are more abundant. 

July 22, Wednesday; Northbound in Labrador Sea. 

I attempt to work on a cargo net of manila hemp rope but pain in my arm forces a 

halt. Jonesy changes my bandage. Dicastro is on a rampage. He is on everyone 

like the seven year itch, finding fault with even the slightest everyday things. 

We have two submarine alerts today. The cutter Mohawk takes off in pursuit. 

Something to brag about after the war—if still alive. 

Nanok's course is a bee line north and east from the mouth of the Belle Isle Strait 

to the southernmost tip of Greenland. Greenland, the world’s largest island, 

governed by Denmark, with more history than inhabitants. It is roughly 800 miles 

wide and 1650 miles long. It’s an area of 840,000 square miles of ice cap, and 

only 130,000 square miles of ice-free land. In some places the ice cap is 7000 to 

8000 feet in depth, a whole bunch of martini coolant, I’d say. 

Summer temperatures in the south are a mean of 48 degrees F. The island is 

home to seals, reindeer, polar hare, musk ox, wolf, lemming, and many sea 

birds. Farther north: polar bear, stoat, Arctic fox, and seasick sailors. Can’t wait 

to see the place. 

42

July 23, Thursday; Labrador Sea. 

Sight my first iceberg today. It is gigantic! About the length of a city block. I 

thought it to be an island. We skirt it widely. The sinking of the Titanic is recalled. 

Some claim icebergs lay 4/5 under water, some say 9/10, yet others say 5/6. I 

say, "a hell of a lot." 

When the brand new ocean liner tore her side open on the side of an iceberg and 

plunged to the bottom of the ocean some thirty years ago it shook the entire 

maritime world. After all, the entire world knew the vessel was "unsinkable," but 

she sank—on her very first voyage! 

I hope Maggie steers clear of these ice monsters. 

The largest bergs are called "growlers." Bergs come mostly from some twenty 

glaciers on Greenland’s east coast. Each year an estimated 15,000 giant bergs 

and millions of smaller ones travel south in the Labrador Current to meet the 

warm Gulf Stream and melt away. In their death throes they create thick fog 

banks that often hide them from even watchful sailor’s eyes. 

Arctic owls perch atop few of the bergs that are estimated to be as much as 

3,000 years of accumulating packed snow. Bergs come in colors from white to 

black with blue, brown, and shades of green in between. The giant berg that was 

struck by the Titanic had survived warm water melt to 42 degrees north. Berg 

colors depend on the sediment and plankton that stick to their bottoms when they 

were part of earth-scraping glaciers that spawn them. 

We accidentally run into a cluster of three whales. One of them slaps our 

starboard bow with it’s tail as it begins to sound. Nanok's bow is pushed several 

feet to port by the blow. I am standing on the bow with several others when the 

impact occurs, and we near lose our footing. Very exciting! 

Jonesy adds a bit of humor to the day when he reports to the bridge that a 

reindeer is floating by. It turns out to be the floating stump of a tree with roots six 

feet long. One had to admit the roots did resemble antlers. The entire crew take 

turns laughing at poor Jonesy. He will never live it down. He stomps about, extra 

red faced the rest of the day. I’m happy it was not me that that first sighted the 

object. I might have reported it as a giant with long, tangled red hair. 

The finger is numb and lifeless. Pain is awful. I try to forget by trying to work on 

the cargo net. Tying becket bends are not too difficult. 

Days grow astonishingly longer. 

43

July 24, Friday; Labrador Sea. 

Drew more heavy duty clothing; a khaki-colored, fleece- lined, 3/4 length parka is 

great. It fits atop everything else I choose to wear. It’s soft, fluffy interior makes it 

easy to fall asleep in this man-made cocoon. Also received heavy army shoes. 

Heavy but comfortable and excellent for walking. Hightop rubber boots. All great 

stuff. I make immediate use of most of my allotment. Even my hair shivers when 

the air is cold. 

Most of the world’s weather is born north of here; the key to tomorrow’s weather 

in the south. Off Greenland’s west coast, even in mid-summer, there is a wide 

variety of weather from blustering storms to dense, blanketing fog, to bright warm 

sunshine. The ice cap temperature can vary from 50 degrees to minus 80 

degrees. This is understandable since most of the island lies under thick ice. 

Not much activity today. Maybe this Greenland Patrol will turn out to be the 

Greenland Gravy Train. 

July 25, Saturday; Labrador Sea. 

I awake to see icebergs to the glory! Big as mountains! I feel as though I am 

watching a travelog movie. The sea is pitching and tossing something fierce! Up 

we go to the heavens, then downward we plunge into hell. Surprisingly, I am not 

seasick, but many are. The Nanok tosses and rolls at great angles. I wonder 

what it would be like for the old girl to be fine-ground between two of these giant 

bergs. 

Grapevine says we should sight Greenland sometime tomorrow. It is supposed to 

be just over the horizon. Only Maggie has ever seen Greenland before. The 

thought of seeing honest-to-goodness Eskimos is very exciting. I feel like 

Gunnbjorn must have. He was the first European known to have sighted the 

island in about the year 900 A.D. He was a Norwegian blown off his course from 

Iceland. He chose not to explore the vast unknown country he called "White Shirt 

Land." 

The next European to come along was one "Eric the Red." Eric, like myself, had 

no choice but to do some exploring. I would guess our reasons differ. In my case, 

my government chose to send me to the "White Shirt Land." In Eric’s case, 

Iceland’s authorities pursued him with a manslaughter charge. To escape the 

iron arms of the law, he fled and landed in Greenland. He was "Eric the Red 

(because he had red hair) Thorvaldson." He renamed the White Shirt Land 

"Greenland," for reasons of his own. My idea is that the man had an enormous 

sense of humor and decided to call the land Greenland because it was all white 

44

ice, and Iceland happens to be all green. He should have named Greenland 

"springtime" because it presented a free and new life for him. 

It is not likely that the red head ever managed to explore the entire perimeter of 

his new ice-fouled homeland. An 840,000 square mile island with thousands of 

fjords would require a fanatically curious explorer to circumnavigate all. The 

island awaits the arrival of the "Mayflower Nanok." 

I found nothing that explains how Eric managed to clear himself of Iceland’s 

manslaughter charges. I wonder if a judge could be bribed in those days. It 

probably will never be known how Eric induced some 500 settlers to follow him 

from Iceland in 985 A.D. to establish a new colony with himself as leader. He and 

those followers settled on Greenland’s southwest coast. About the year 1000 

A.D., Eric’s son Leif Ericsson is said to have brought Christianity to the island, 

the winter in which Eric the Red died. Ruins of his house are at Brattalid and I 

hope to see them. 

Colonists brought by Eric the Red somehow survived and about the year 1348 

A.D. were smitten by pestilence or plague. Few survived this also. These 

survivors later disappeared under unknown circumstances. There followed many 

explorations of varying magnitudes by men of many countries. Many are the 

records of Eskimo kidnappings and disappearings of exploratory ships and men. 

In the year 1721, Hans Egede sailed to Greenland with his wife Gertrud. Both 

were Norwegian and Hans a Lutheran priest. It was his intention to teach the 

ways of God to Greenlanders and search for signs of the missing settlers and 

explorers that preceded him. His vessel, the Good Hope, arrived on June 3, 

1721. A stone house was built on Kangek Island, which he rechristened Good 

Hope after his vessel. He later moved to the mainland and established what 

became Godthåb, the capitol of Greenland. 

Greenlanders learned to love the kindly priest who brought and taught them 

goodness. His ability to live unaffected by sorcery practiced by some 

Greenlanders, immortalized him before their eyes. During his fifteen-year stay, 

Hans defied almost unbearable hardships and periods of near famine. In 1736, 

when Gertrud died, then he, in bad health, returned to Copenhagen. Upon 

returning to good health, he returned to Greenland and served as superintendent 

to Denmark’s mission to Greenland from 1740 to 1747. He retired to the island of 

Falster to die at age 73. His stone house still Stands at Godthåb along with a 

giant statue of the priest on a hill overlooking the village. 

Greenland continued to attract scientists and the curious from all over the world. 

Some names are legend and would fill volumes. Even America’s flying ace 

Charles A. Lindbergh and his wife Ann Morrow Lindbergh were attracted to the 

White Shirt Land. Together in 1933 they made numerous flights up and down the 

45

west coast and over the ice cap in their seaplane. Eskimos named the plane 

Tingmissartoq, the one that flies like a bird. 

I stand my bow watch and daydream this Greenlandic history. Wind is rising. It 

flings cold spray into my face and returns me to reality. My nostrils are dry and 

sting with puffs of my frosty vapor that reminds me of dragon’s breath. How can 

anyone write with affection for the frozen wasteland? Soon I will know. It is said 

that everyone who visits Greenland is compelled to write about it. Perhaps I too 

may find some unwritten facet to write about. At the moment I long only to lay 

below in the warmth of my fo’c’s’le sack. 

July 26, Sunday; Labrador Sea. 

Was awakened at 0330 to stand an 0400 to 0800 watch. He that awakened me 

left before my eyes had opened. I wondered why the ship’s engine was silent. 

We were wallowing in sea swells. On deck the sun shone through slight haze 

lying low on the sea. It was a most beautiful morning. Cap Mag greets me with a 

gruff grunt and a nod as I begin my pilot house watch. 

About a mile or so to starboard lies Gunnbjorn’s "White Shirt Land." It appears as 

a colossal iceberg, fascinating but foreboding. It blends and fades into the distant 

horizon. The water’s edge appears to be a jagged line of brownish-gray and red 

that is topped with white, white being the ice cap. It is not near enough to see in 

much detail. My first sense is similar to Gunnbjorn’s. I feel very little desire to 

land here at the moment. 

Cap Maggie says we await the arrival of the North Star to guide us into the 

proper fjord. Maggie and I are the only two awake above deck. All is peaceful 

and quiet. Air is surprisingly warm so I quietly open a shutter and lean outward to 

smell fresh sea air. It makes breathing so easy. I study the shapes of many great 

bergs around us. 

The captain is unpredictable. Even in so short a time one learns to sense his 

moods. He watches one particular iceberg intently. It resembles a ten gallon 

Stetson cowboy hat except that where the crown should have been pinched with 

a crease there is a large hole completely through the ice. 

There is a growing excitement in Maggie. His eyes shift quickly right and left. I 

am startled by the sudden sound of his voice: "‘ski, wake up Guns." Curiosity 

bugs me but one does not ask the meaning of an order. But why a gunner at 

0400 with no enemy about? 

"Guns" does not want to leave the comfort of his sack. He thinks I am joking . 

46

"C’mon, dammit!" I urge him. "The old man wants you in the pilot house on the 

double!" 

"What in hell for!?" he demands. 

"I think he wants you to fast-grease his pistol," I say, and duck as Guns swipes at 

me. 

Maggie still stares intently at the berg that is now two points off our port bow. 

Goose pimples pop up on my arms. Could there be a camouflaged enemy ship 

or submarine out there that he does not want to lose sight of? I dismiss the 

thought as impossible for he would have sounded "General Quarters." 

Guns Owens arrives several steps behind me. Sleep has left his eyes. He 

recognizes the expression on Maggie’s face and knows I was not joking about 

summoning him. 

"Guns," says the skipper, "this is a good time to see what serious damage our 

three inch twenty three cannon can do, don’t you think so?" 

Guns casts a quick, bewildering glance in my direction. I turn away a half-hidden 

smile from the skipper’s view and tried to turn an involuntary laugh into a false 

cough. 

"I guess it is, Cap’n, if you think so, sir," Guns replied. 

"See that berg with the hole through it?" Maggie points at the Stetson hat. 

"Yesser," Guns nods affirmatively. 

"I wonder how it would sound if we split it with a shot?" 

"I, I don’t know, Captain," stammered Guns. 

"We’ll find out," says Maggie gruffly. 

"Now, sir?" 

"For God sake! Yes! Now!!" 

"Aye sir," said Guns. "Give me a hand, ’ski, ok?" 

"Okay." 

47

The old man stayed in the pilot house while Guns and I dashed forward across 

the deck and up the ladder to the gun deck. Guns whispered to me that he was 

not sure if the gun still had recoil fluid in it. 

"What if it doesn’t?" I ask. 

"If it hasn’t, we’re gonna get blown off this goddam deck!" he says. I helped him 

load the cannon and slammed the big gun shut. 

"Okay," says Guns, "go ahead." 

"Go ahead with what?" I ask. 

"Fire the fuckin’ thing!!" he blurts. 

"Up your fantail!" I counter. "You’re the Gunner’s Mate, not me!" 

Guns quietly and smilingly cursed me. I stepped back as far as I could possibly 

go without falling off the gun deck. Guns gets himself in position alongside the 

blunderbuss. The scrubby, rusty old hunk of iron has a curved shoulder brace 

and Owens fits his shoulder into it. The aiming apparatus is even more archaic. 

One has to align two separate cross wires with the right eye and also the spot 

being aimed at. Since the Nanok was on a gentle sea-swell roll, I felt that hitting 

even a battleship would be like trying to hit a running mouse in the ass with a 

sling shot. 

Guns took aim, closed his eyes, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. There 

was a colossal ‘Boom!!!’ that I am sure encircled the earth and came back to 

echo and re-echo off bergs and distant mountains. Up off the gun deck went 

Guns and me propelled by heavy marine plywood decking that had torn loose 

and popped us about a foot in the air! The ‘boom’ was so loud it seemed as 

though someone had fired into my left ear through my right ear! Thank God there 

was recoil fluid in the gun! 

In the shortest period of time ever recorded, the deck was filled with the Nanok's 

entire crew. The faces looked sleepy but the eyes bulged, and everyone wore 

electrified hair. Maggie thought it was "jolly good fun." He was the only one who 

seemed to think so. Most of the crew were barefoot and in long underwear. A few 

were wearing their ‘Mae West’ life jackets. All wanted to know where the enemy 

was. Guns pointed toward the captain in the pilot house. Dicastro appeared 

furious but wisely made no comment. Neither did Chiefs McClay or Talledo. 

Bos’n Robbins just stood muttering, clenching and unclenching his fists. Although 

there were always signs that Maggie had a weird sense of humor, no one now 

had any doubt. 

48

My ears rang most of the day. I congratulated Guns. If the berg had been an 

enemy tank on the gun deck, he still would have scored only a near hit at best. 

The shot did however strike the giant berg just below it’s navel and only 

appeared as a small, black spot. Owens mumbles some profanity under his 

breath and returns, shaken, to his sack. Deck repair is left to Chips Delaney to 

worry about. Robbins said that hitting anything from the rolling deck of the Nanok 

would be like "hitting a raging bull in the ass with a pitchfork." Everyone is 

surprised to learn the gun deck is made of wood. 

July 27, Monday; U.S. airbase at Narsarssuaq (BW 1). 

Slept through breakfast but Cookie fed me anyway. My finger is festering under 

the nail. The aching pain is steady. I’m tired of hearing myself complain aloud 

about it so I cease. 

The North Star makes her appearance and proceeds us up a long fjord nearby. 

The fjord’s jagged shoreline gradually magnifies into giant mountains on both 

sides of the fjord. As we proceed, the mountains rise higher and higher to 

breathless heights and from their crests hang giant icicles with peels of ice-cake 

frosting. The fjord is a narrow, water-filled, bottomless valley between snow and 

ice-crowned peaks of multi-colored rock. The mountain sides plunge downward 

at steep angles. Even small beaches are rare, and most have Eskimo villages 

atop them. Probably because fish and birds and seals abound in the vicinity in 

abundance enough to sustain life. 

There is a majestic splendor to the mountains as we glide between them. Their 

magnitude fills me with awe, and their silence enhances a sense of loneliness. 

The Nanok is a mouse creeping into a crevasse. As we progress slowly up-fjord, 

we learn we are bound for Narsarssuak, a command center for the operation of 

naval patrol planes. There are at least 400 men including Army, Navy, Coast 

Guard, and civilian construction personnel. It is also the location of a large army 

base center. The installation’s code name is BW 1. 

It could not have been located in a more obscure area. I lay below for lunch and 

when I return topside, BW 1 lies two points off our starboard bow. There is much 

activity ashore and quite a number of vessels both at anchor mid-fjord and at 

dockside. There are a loud variety of sounds. There are men shouting orders, 

racing trucks and jeeps, engines and cranes. In from our portside, low overhead, 

glides an American Martin bomber in landing pattern. It passes overhead and 

causes the Nanok to vibrate. 

When we are tied dockside, I go secretly to the cutter Comanche tied just forward 

of the Nanok. My festered finger looks and feels worse than ever. My entire arm 

hangs almost useless. The Comanche’s doctor thinks I come on board with my 

49

captain’s permission and I don’t tell him otherwise. He smears the finger with 

some sort of salve and wraps it in gauze. He advises me to see the army base 

hospital doctor tomorrow, and that I would probably be hospitalized a few days. 

Narsarssuaq turns out to be just a tiny Eskimo settlement on the side of the fjord 

directly across from BW 1. Both village and air base set in sort of flat-bottomed 

valley that crosses the fjord at right angles. This low-lying valley may well be a 

trough worn into the rock by a glacier long forgotten. 

I am disappointed to learn that Eskimo villages are out of bounds for everyone 

except Eskimos. If one does not have specific and official business to conduct, 

one is not allowed to visit with Greenlanders at their settlements. It should 

therefore prove difficult to accidentally or intentionally violate native customs as 

feared by Captain Magnusson. As matter of fact, it would be near impossible for 

land-based army or navy personnel to even reach any of the villages. There are 

no roads or even paths that lead from base to villages, or even from village to 

village or base to base. One would have to cross mountains and glaciers on foot, 

or travel by boat. Since land-based personnel have no access to boats or ships, 

they will never experience a one-on-one contact with natives. 

But we on board the Nanok may. We on board the Nanok are privileged in that 

we have occasion and reason to visit various villages. There is bound to be some 

sort of fraternization. 

Speaking of Eskimos, I am on deck and hear water splashing at the Nanok's 

side. Peering over the portside gunwale, I get to see my first honest-to-goodness 

Eskimo face to face! We see one another simultaneously. He is startled and 

taken aback at sight of me, and I am of him! I conclude that he is not an enemy 

spy for he wears no disguising beard or handlebar moustache. No smoked 

glasses, or raincoat, nor does he carry a machine gun. 

"Ahoy!" I say. 

He answers with a smile and forms some sounds deep in his throat. I take it to 

mean "howdy." 

His conveyance is a kayak some fourteen to sixteen feet in length, about two feet 

in width and perhaps eighteen inches in depth. It tapers fore and aft to pointed 

bow and stern. It’s fuselage is a fragile-looking wooden skeleton covered with 

tautly drawn seal skin. The cockpit is circular, precisely midships, and is barely 

large enough to accommodate one person. It has a flexible, collapsible collar of 

the same type skin. A most uncomfortable appearing craft. It’s pilot must wriggle 

into it as perhaps a woman might wriggle into a girdle. He must sit flat with his 

legs stretched straight forward, unbent. In a very short time the legs must 

become numb. Once inside the cockpit, it’s skin collar is raised and drawn tight 

around the passenger’s waist with drawstrings, making the vessel watertight. 

50

Also, the passenger wears a waterproofed sealskin jumper that tucks into the 

cockpit’s collar before it is tightened around the waist. The jumper has an 

attached hood that is drawn snugly around the neck with drawstrings. Another 

cord vertically encircles the entire face. Yet another cord horizontally encircles 

the forehead level of the head. The passenger thus becomes totally waterproofed 

within a sealskin cocoon. 

My visitor laid aside his long, slender paddle that had a flat blade at each end 

and untied his cockpit collar. From somewhere inside his cramped quarters he 

withdrew a small codfish and held it up for my approval. I smiled and nodded 

approvingly. "Nice fish." I said, doubtful that he understood. He made a motion 

toward his mouth and away, and back to his mouth and away again. For a 

moment I thought he was trying to let me know the fish is good to eat. Then I 

recognize an old and common American habit. He slaps at his heart as if he is 

searching for something. Of course! He is trying to let me know that his inner 

blouse pocket is empty of cigarettes. Motioning the fish back and forth, to and 

away from his mouth, inhaling and exhaling, was his way of demonstrating the 

act of cigarette smoking! Damned clever of him. 

To verify whether I was correct in my assumption, I pulled out a pack of smokes. 

I shook a cigarette part-way out of the pack and extended the pack toward the 

visitor. His golden-tan, moon face glowed when he saw the butts. Instead of 

taking one as is our custom, he grasped the entire pack and pulled it out of my 

hand and replaced it with the codfish! 

"Hey!" I began, but away he went, bound for the village across the fjord. He 

paddled swiftly without a backward glance. 

Standing in line with the rippled wake of the small vessel, I wondered if this was 

Greenlandic custom. There was no doubt I had been "taken" by this iceberg 

carpetbagger. He knew I was unable to pursue him. My spontaneous anger turns 

into laughter. No longer must I wonder what I may teach these uneducated 

natives, but what they will teach me. In the future I will be wary of welcoming 

committees. 

The codfish has seen better days and emits an unpleasant odor. Something tells 

me it had been buried under rocks for some time to season. It (supposedly) then 

would become a delicacy. I’ve heard that Greenlanders did this with birds, but 

fish?! I bury it a second time, in the fjord. End of lesson one. 

July 28, Tuesday; Narsarssuaq (BW 1). 

Ashore for the first time except for my short walk on the dock to see the 

Comanche’s doctor. The base is very large in area including the air field. I 

51

stopped at an army recreation building and watched a few games of good old 

billiards and listen to a few phonograph records. 

The base army doctor told me to keep my finger dry and clean and return in two 

days. He cleaned and rewrapped the finger and told me that if no healing is 

visible by the time I see him again, several finger joints may have to be 

amputated. 

The thought of amputation infuriates me! I swear aloud at Dicastro’s clumsiness 

at the winch and his refusal to allow me proper medical attention. The doctor 

questioned me about how the finger was injured. I told him the entire story. He 

thinks it incredible! He said he intended to make the incident known to Captain 

Magnusson. I ask him not to do so, that Dicastro would surely seek revenge. Doc 

said it was his duty to do so. 

On my long walk back to the Nanok I experience another aggravation. Some one 

in supply must have goofed. Every man destined for Greenland duty should have 

been issued a mosquito net and a pith helmet! I wore none at the time. A small 

cloud of swarming darkness came swiftly toward me. The cloud consisted of 

thousands if not millions of tiny, pin-head sized flies! They circled my head, 

landed on my eye balls, and entered my ears and nostrils. My open mouth 

became their garage. I swallowed many and others managed to crawl between 

teeth and inner cheeks. I ran! They follow! Thank heaven the little bastards did 

not bite. I spat up many and gag on others. 

The doctor must have phoned Maggie. As I boarded the Nanok, the skipper 

summoned me to his private quarters and questioned me at length. Reluctantly I 

relate to him the entire story in detail. How the injury occurred and of Dicastro’s 

refusal to allow me to receive proper medical attention except for the visit he 

knew about. 

Skipper was infuriated! I lie and tell him that I harbor no ill feelings and wish the 

incident to be forgotten. Dicastro’s wrath alone did not scare me as much as 

knowing the dirty bastard would take out his anger at all of the crew. Maggie 

chooses not to forget. 

From inside the cabin closet he brought out a one gallon, flat, paint thinner can. 

He then poured out a half cup of green liquid that foams like soap. It turns out to 

be his own home-made cure-all medicine made from seaweed. He wrapped my 

finger in gauze and ordered me to "soak your finger in this." I protest: "But the 

doctor said I should just keep the finger clean and dry!" Impatiently he thrusts my 

finger deep into the green stuff. 

"This stuff is good for everything," says the skipper, "even dandruff." 

52

I wondered if he was not joking about the dandruff but he looks serious. He gave 

me a supply of the stuff and tells me to dip my finger into it whenever the gauze 

appears to be drying. I fear for the finger but have much faith in the captain so I 

accepted his recommendation. Besides, when Dicastro finds out I spilled the 

beans about him, I’m gonna need the skipper on my side. 

As I leave the pilot house, he orders me to summon Dicastro and I do so. 

Dicastro orders me to accompany him but the skipper orders Dicastro to come 

into his cabin alone. The hatch is slammed shut. I hear Maggie begin shouting 

half in Norwegian and half in accented English. I make tracks beating it out of the 

area. 

Truck drivers here get a whopping $1.56 per hour and all of the overtime they 

can handle! At Dodge Brothers Motor Car Company, I was receiving less than 

half that amount. In addition, all civilian workers receive free room and board. In 

return, the men must sign work contracts for periods of six months at a time. If, 

however, the worker breaks contract and quits work before the contract’s 

termination date, his pay ceases immediately. Too, the company begins charging 

him an exorbitant price for food and lodgings. Those who quit early are informed 

that as soon as a berth on a ship returning to the states becomes available, the 

worker can leave. Coincidentally, or by design, the available berths fail to 

materialize. The worker’s food and lodging bill skyrockets. The generous 

company then offers the worker an easy way out of the debt. If the worker would 

change his mind and finish his stint, his food and lodging debt would be forgiven. 

Not too many men who quit really go home. 

July 29, Wednesday; BW 1 

Unbelievable but true! The pain is gone from my finger overnight! The pain has 

been with me for so long that I miss it. When I told Maggie about this minor 

miracle he said: "What did you expect? The finger to fall off?" He gave me 

another supply of the green stuff in a soup bowl. Stan says it looks like Cookie’s 

fish chowder. Clark growls at him. 

Good lord! What have I caused?! Already Dicastro is on a rampage! No one is 

excluded from his anger! It might have been better to have lost the damn finger. 

What the hell! This is the Nanok, not the Bounty! It seems the world always has 

more than enough pricks to go around! 

Several of us walk to the civilian’s PX. I feel like a pregnant mom in want of a 

chocolate bar and a coke. We cannot purchase anything at the post exchange. 

They do not accept cash, only coupons in ten dollar value booklets that are 

issued only to the civilian personnel by their employer. The PX is owned and 

operated by civilians. We learn civilian workers receive no cash wages in 

53

Greenland. It is either deposited stateside in a bank of their choice, or sent 

directly to next of kin, or both. Workers only receive the ten dollar value coupon 

booklets that are used to purchase their needs and wants. 

Abe Brill says the PX stocks everything but lace panties. 

"Why? Do you need some?" ask Chips. 

Abe’s face reddens. "Shit no!" he growls. 

"They’d look great on your chubby little tush," Chips teases. 

"Piss on you! Piss on all you guys!" says Brill as he stomps off. 

"If they don’t get paid cash here, where do all the crap and card game 

greenbacks come from?" I want to know. Fairbanks says many of the guys write 

home and receive cash in the mail. Besides gambling, cash is only used to pay 

for favors such as having someone do your chores. There is an army PX here 

too, of course, but no one wants to tell us where. Most likely the army yard birds 

don’t want sailors buying up all their goodies. We are told only our skipper is 

allowed to make army PX purchases. Even then, with limitations. What a crock of 

shit! The large C.G. and Navy vessels carry their own supplies but shit pots the 

size of Nanok do not. Because of space limitation? 

Several of us stand in a group outside the civvy PX with hats-in-hand and beggar 

looks on our faces. We plead with all who enter to buy us a goodie or two. I want 

a bar of something sweet so badly I damn near drool watching civilians gobbling 

up the stuff as they walk by. We offer two and three dollars for a candy bar with 

no takers. We do not excel as pan handlers so we give up. Our lesson is that 

even the smallest luxury is gonna be hard to come by. 

Each civvy is allowed to purchase two cans of beer per day. Some save them 

until they accumulate ten cans or so, then sell them for as much as $25 cash. I 

like to use a tiny bit of petroleum jelly to control my dry unruly hair instead of the 

more popular hair oil. The perfume odor of hair oil sickens me. Before leaving the 

PX, I make one more attempt to acquire a jar of the jelly. The civilian I ask is no 

gentleman. He finds it hilariously amusing to find a sailor in such dire need of a 

"jar of grease," as he called it. He implies I need the stuff for a variety of erotic 

sex purposes. I find his comments hilariously amusing also, and laugh along with 

him, until I learn he does not jest. There is only one way I know of to convince 

him that he is wrong. Since only my right fist is usable, I use it, and plant it on a 

laughing chin. He lay convinced, spread-eagled on the ground against the side of 

the building. His upper teeth have bitten through the flesh of two of my knuckles. 

I ask him if he still thinks his sex stories are true, but he doesn't answer. Several 

other civilians hurry out of the PX and demand to know who struck their buddy. 

My bleeding knuckles are thrust into my dungaree pocket and I say I never saw 

54

the culprit. Giant Petrenko steps to my side. He wears a fiendish grin and is 

spoiling for some exercise. Again I ask the comedian if he knows who struck him. 

Still no answer. Pete and I watch the comedian’s friends half carry the guy off. 

Before returning to the Nanok, we visit the paymaster. He is quartered in a 

corrugated sheet metal Quonset hut. We enter the front’s only door. A few steps 

indoors is a waist-high railing that stretches from one side of the hut to the other. 

There is a small swinging gate for employees to enter. Just beyond the railing 

sits the paymaster at his desk. There are several other occupied desks also. 

Beyond the desks are bundles of American currency. (Later I would learn it was 

all one dollar bills, brand new. The money is stacked from floor to near roof 

height. The bundles are about one foot square. Each bundle is sandwiched 

between thin wooden boards and bound with wire. In all my life I have never 

seen or been so near to such great amount of cash. It was all for service men, 

none for the civilians. 

Mice must have gotten a greater share of the money than we did. Each of us 

received a small stack of America’s finest greenery and carried it back to the 

Nanok. Jonesy sings, "I never thought I’d ever see a green thing lovelier than a 

tree." On board ship our small money bundles seem somewhat larger than when 

they were still on a stack in the hut. 

The Natsek is here, tied up just astern of the Nanok. A half dozen of us board her 

and a red-hot crap game begins. The Natsek crew has gobs of money and we 

begin to separate them from it. Chet Benash and Norm White just look on. Before 

too long, they too are shouting "seven-come-eleven!" 

The Natsek's skipper La Farge is nowhere about. 

After several hours all hands experience hunger pains and the game ends. 

Nanok's crew damn near cleaned out Natsek's bucks. We are considerably 

wealthier. I hope the Natsek's losses do not embitter it’s crew against us. Bob 

Repucci and Harry Baram are heavy losers but manage to smile. We are to work 

side by side with the Natsek quite often. Nice bunch of swab jockies. It would not 

be the best of situations if we started out disliking one another. 

Latest rumors are that we may be assigned patrol duty in Davis Strait. Hope not, 

sounds as dull and monotonous as my Sea Cloud weather patrol duty. 

July30, Thursday; BW 1. 

Went to see movie at army recreation hall with Chips Delaney. Saw The Bugle 

Calls with Wallace Beery. Chips is an excellent ship’s carpenter and a sometimes 

member of the fo’c’s’le choral (?) group. The guy is jovial and raucous, 

55

sometimes a tenor and sometimes half-assed baritone. Depending on his mood, 

I guess. He hails from New Jersey which he insists should be the capitol of the 

United States. His body is thin with many protruding bones the same as his 

impish, ever-grinning face. After the movie, he and I walk a gravel road back to 

the Nanok. As we walk we clown around a bit. Chips lets out a loud, open 

mouthed laugh and busts loose a body-shaking sneeze in the middle of it. An 

artificial tooth pops out of his mouth and lands somewhere amongst the roadgravel 

pebbles, or so he says. I had known he had lost most of his upper front 

teeth when accidentally hit by a ball bat when acting as a catcher in a childhood 

sandlot ball game. He had lost a large portion of the jaw-bone as well. As we 

searched for the tooth, I was never convinced that the search was anything more 

than one of his jokes. He showed a gap where the tooth had been, but it could be 

a tooth he could remove and replace at will. Since pebbles and an artificial tooth 

look similar, I was shocked when I found the tooth after an hour’s search. 

Delaney grinned in toothless gratitude. 

Gosh darn these endless days! I don't know whether to go to bed or to do my 

laundry. Daylight lingers around the clock! What a better way to end the day than 

opening a letter from sweet Lucy. Also received two postcards from Peggy Fitz. I 

no longer answer Peg’s mail because of guilt feelings. 

July 31, Friday; BW 1. 

Maggie has told everyone about how pissed-off he is with Dicastro’s antics and 

how he refused me proper medical attention. He mentions to McClay and 

Robbins that he’ll "fix that mattress-makin’ muskrat!" 

Had 4 to 8 a.m. [watch] then spent the rest of the day as galley punk. 

Oh happy, happy, happy day! Rumors are that Dicastro is about to walk the 

plank! Whoopee! Cookie Clark says if the rumor proves true, he will bake us the 

biggest friggin’ cake we ever saw. There is no doubt the skipper wants Dicastro 

to shove off. The Nanok may still prove to be heaven. 

Finger feels good dipped periodically in Maggie’s au-jus. No more red streaks up 

the arm or any pain in it. Dicastro has opened up all his meanest valves. 

Eskimos appear in kayaks from time to time. They trade hand-made trinkets for 

candy, cigarettes and for much desired "chew-gum." They are pleasant, happy 

people with concrete smiles that never disappear. We know naught of their 

customs and the why and wherefore of some of the things they do. We merely 

observe and try to interpret, and we do—I think—a fairly good job of it. 

56

I would like to tell them how very lonely their land and environment makes me 

feel. I would like to ask them how they manage to tolerate loneliness if indeed 

they do. Perhaps I should keep my mouth shut and allow these happy people to 

remain happy. I yearn for the sight of trees and other greenery. Thus far all I 

have seen are ground-hugging, moss-looking carpeting in here and there 

patches. 

Maggie says every village has it’s own overseer. They are called ‘Governors.’ 

Wonder when we will get to see and meet one. 

August 1942 

Cold weather is my enemy, but I must acknowledge a sense of gratitude for 

being stationed in an area relatively safe from enemy forces. While I complain of 

cold weather and petty discomforts, thousands of American soldiers in warmer 

climates are dying. I experience a feeling of guilt. We are away from the States 

slightly more than a month and already I am impatient to return. Time moves 

slowly and lies heavily on my morale. We are not busy enough. There is too 

much time to think and to feel sorry for one’s self. Idleness brings on 

homesickness. I feel sure that World War II will go on forever. 

August 1, Saturday; BW 1. 

The U.S.C.G. icebreaker Escanaba arrives. Last time I saw and boarded her was 

on Michigan’s northeast coast where she was known as a CG prison ship. 

Dexter, Jordan, Roach, Robbins, Elmer, and I go on board for a visit. Very few 

familiar faces on board so the visit was brief. 

Hope our duty doesn’t amount to just lying here throughout the entire war. We’ve 

already been here five rather slow-moving days. The crew is obviously anxious to 

begin doing whatever it is we were sent here to do. It is boring and monotonous 

to chip away at loose paint, add red lead and coast guard gray paint. 

Down fjord nearby we visit a scuttled foreign ship lying on the shore rocks. Very 

creepy. Cups and dishes were still on tables. Crew clothing and other personal 

belongings were left as if the crew were still on board somewhere. Abandonment 

was obviously hurried for I found one shoe in a compartment and the other was 

nowhere about. Comer suggests that the one shoe probably belonged to Peg 

Leg Pete or Long John Silver. We help ourselves to whatever we want to. 

Maggie says it is unlawful to take anything from this supposedly old Norwegian 

vessel, yet he leaves carrying a large sack of plunder. I find a beautiful set of 

clocks in a compartmented, felt-lined oak case, a solid silver-looking ship’s bell 

57

about ten inches high, some exquisite fishing gear, sheath knife, fur-lined parka, 

binoculars, and a host of other goodies. Most returned to the Nanok loaded 

down. A few, including Jordan, chose to take nothing. Talledo, who carried off 

many articles, says the scuttled ship’s crew will never get to see their ship again. 

The local inhabitants will strip it of everything of value. 

It is rumored the ship’s crew had mutinied. Other rumors are that a submarine 

pursued it, and rather than surrender, its skipper chose to scuttle it. He then 

surrendered himself and the crew to the enemy submarine commander. 

Whatever had taken place we would never know for sure. A variety of other tales 

were told but we would never even learn the vessel’s true identity. 

Dicastro growls at all of us. I hope the bastard will be gone as soon as the 

skipper finds a toilet to drown him in. 

August 2, Sunday; BW 1. 

Still awaiting orders from somewhere. Hope they are not from Paul Revere. 

Shook Cookie out of his sack at 0500 but he fell back to sleep until 0730. Result, 

he faced the wrath of Chief Talledo. When Talledo finished, Dicastro took a turn 

at him. Clark grinned because he was already restricted and cannot leave the 

ship. 

"What else can the bastard do to me?" asks Clark. "If the son of a bitch wants to 

keep eating, he’d better leave me the hell alone!" But Clark has been ordered to 

arise at 0300 from now on. 

Dicastro is busy finding mean, dirty little things for me to do. Woe! 

John "Balboa" Goncalves has sprouted a beautiful beard and moustache. Hair on 

his knuckle-head has grown fast and is shoulder length. John is of Portuguese 

decent and bears a striking resemblance to the Italian aviator Italo Balbo and is 

knick-named after him. Someone added the "a" so we call him Balboa instead of 

Balbo. Very few men look good with a beard and moustache. Johnny is one of 

the few. He has also the powerfully impressing look of Benito Mussolini. 

Balboa gives me a bald-head haircut. My entire head looks like something 

someone pulled out of the rear end of a very sick whale. Nick Vacar says he has 

seen better heads on a glass of beer. Dicastro says I look like shit. One of his 

close relatives, I suppose. McClay just grins like a coon-dog eatin’ crap. Talledo 

has a laughing fit and is unable to voice his compliment. 

58

Spoke to the skipper about my rating elevation from seaman to coxswain. His 

"we’ll see, we’ll see" makes me feel my promotion prospects are dimming. I 

suspect that Maggie, Talledo and Dicastro are unable to reach an agreement 

about promoting me. 

Small luxuries are still hard to come by. 

August 3, Monday; BW 1. 

Great day in the morning! We are getting rid of Dicastro!! Skipper told Talledo 

that Dicastro is being kicked off the Nanok for numerous reasons, primarily for 

refusing a crew member proper medical attention, [but also] because he is ill 

tempered, antagonistic, has aggravated every member of the crew, and 

deliberately acts upon orders as slowly as he possibly can. And probably about 

six dozen reasons equally as acceptable. 

A number of the crew are on deck and are busy at work. Secretly we are there to 

witness this hateful person’s departure. He has dragged his gear up out of his 

bird-nest quarters and down onto the deck just forward of the pilot house. He 

shouted—can you believe it!?—for me to carry his gear ashore! I turn my back on 

him and pretend not to have heard. Next, he calls to Balboa for help. Johnny spit 

down onto the deck in a demonstration of contempt and turned his back also. 

Dicastro shouted to Jonesy, but the skipper stuck his head out of pilot house and 

bellowed, "Mister Dicastro, get off the ship, we are about to shove off!" 

Dicastro was scheduled to serve on board the cutter Blue Bird which was tied 

just forward of the Nanok. The Blue Bird’s stern [is] just forward of Nanok’s bow, 

but it’s deck [is] high above the Nanok. Many of the Blue Bird’s crew line her 

stern rail. They have heard of Dicastro's reputation and look on in amusement. 

Dicastro looked up at two of the men and ordered them to come on board for his 

gear. As if smitten by a giant hand, they turn their backs in unison, much like a 

chorus line. Again Maggie orders Dicastro to leave the Nanok. His voice sounds 

like a genuine order rather than a request. Without further ado, Dicastro picks up 

several of his bags and carries them onto the dock. Then he scrambled back on 

board, and in less than a few minutes he had all his belongings ashore. His face 

was purple with rage. 

In exchange for Dicastro, we take on board a young ensign named Oscar Dillon. 

Oscar seemed to be a friendly, intelligent young man, looking much like a puffycheeked 

college freshman. We were told that Maggie thought highly of Dicastro’s 

replacement and that was good enough for the crew. Oscar wears a brush-cut of 

hair. He is of medium build. His complexion is quite dark, smooth and flawless. I 

could see no whiskers whatsoever. 

59

The first thing Oscar does is confiscate all cameras and lock them in the ship’s 

safe. I hoped this was not a sample of his discipline. I had hoped to take many 

photographs. 

We leave BW 1 at last! 

The Nanok strikes many small ice bergs and one quite large one. I lay in my sack 

daydreaming, idly scanning the overhead. We strike what surely was a sizeable 

berg because the ten inch square, overhead timber split through it’s entire length 

with a loud, tearing sound! 

As usual, I turn to lay on my side, facing the outer skin of the ship and secretly 

fill-in my diary entry. I feel a bit homesick, anxious for mail and missing the 

nearness of my wife. Memory of her remains ever fresh, exciting, and damnably 

disturbing to my sleep. Her presence, even in dreams, is welcome. 

The Nanok is expected to cross the Arctic Circle soon. The Circle, at latitude 66° 

33’N, circumscribes the frigid zone within which the north experiences twentyfour 

hours of sunlight after about June 21, and twenty-four hours of darkness 

after about December 22. Some of the crew wanted to get humorous certificate 

blanks on which to record the event. The skipper would not permit "such 

foolishness" and forbade the crew to bring any on board. The old grouch! The 

certificates are just for fun and supposedly have the blessings of King Boreas 

(whoever that is supposed to be). The document is awarded to initiate it’s 

recipient into the "Royal Order of Rugged Ice Worms," and "The Ancient Order of 

the Icebergs." 

August 4, Tuesday; BW 1. 

Been to Arsuk, Ivigtut, Julianehåb and several other villages, the largest being 

Julianehåb. It is the largest by far and yet it can be traversed by foot in no more 

than twenty minutes. It consists of approximately fifteen brightly-painted woodenframe 

houses. They are painted mostly in combinations of red with white trim, 

blue with red trim, and green with blue trim. The houses lay scattered across the 

gently-sloping, rocky hillside. Scattered between the houses are Eskimo huts. 

These are made of rocks, earth, scavenged old packing crate boards, pieces of 

tin, and many unrecognizable materials, [all] spackle-patched with chunks of 

moss. Along the lower edges of the village, close to water’s shore are several 

storage buildings and workshops. There are no roads. There are no visible 

vehicles except small, man-powered pull-along wagons. Footpaths cross one 

another like spider webs. 

The other villages are even smaller and less populated. We make deliveries to 

each of them, mostly medicines, clothing and food stuffs. 

60

In a quiet fjord we come across three U.S. Army officials in a broken down 

outboard motor boat. We take all of them on board. They are radio personnel. 

We drop them off at Julianehåb and return to BW 1. 

The first Army WAAC nurses arrive by ship. One would think six Lady Godiva’s 

were landing. Every off-duty soldier, sailor, and civilian gathered at the dock to 

greet them. When I inquired about the crowd at dockside, someone jokingly said 

President Roosevelt [had] arrived on a tour of inspection. Gullible me, I believed 

it and joined the welcoming committee. I feel sure that Mister Roosevelt never 

enjoyed a more enthusiastic welcome than did the six blushing females. Officers 

found it near impossible to drag men from under the steep rising gangplank that 

the ladies were descending. They are average-looking women, but at the 

moment they were the most beautiful creatures the Lord ever created in heaven!! 

It was, without a doubt, their finest hour ever!! Cat calls and wolf whistles were 

deafening! With much difficulty two Jeeps plowed slowly through the struggling 

mass of men. Scent of perfume and cosmetics hung in the air like the clouds of 

mosquitoes do. Traces of peek-a-boo lace is seen on several of the women and I 

feared a riot would begin! There are dozens of marriage prospects among the 

sea of lewdly grinning men. Base moral must have risen two hundred percent in 

a matter of minutes. 

Almost immediately the base is stricken with a rash of minor pains and injuries. 

Most are treated with a cup of double strength epsom salts. One soldier is 

fortunate enough to rupture his appendix. He is the only new patient to be 

admitted to the hospital this day. As suddenly as the plague began, it was 

eradicated. 

August 5, Wednesday; At sea. 

Arrival of the nurses prompted many men to write home for cheesecake photos 

of their sweethearts or wives. 

We leave BW 1 once again and heave-to outside of an unnamed fjord and 

wallow in a heavy ground swell. We await a pilot launch to guide us to airbase 

Sondrestromfjord on a fjord of the same name. It is also known as BW 8, and lies 

above the Arctic Circle. As we await the launch, Maggie suggests we fish for 

fresh cod to take to BW 8 for they get no fresh fish from elsewhere. 

Maggie proves to be an excellent fisherman. He uses 21-thread line and seven 

silver hooks, each about seven inches long. They are spaced some two feet 

apart and are baited with pork fat. 

"Oops!," he says, "I’ve got one!" A bit more jiggling of his line, then, "Oops! I’ve 

got two!," then, "Oops, I’ve got three! Oops! Four" until "Oops!" five, six, and 

61

seven. When he retrieves his line, sure enough, he has hooked seven codfish 

ranging from two to four feet in length! 

I use the same kind of line and bait but only one hook. I never receive the 

slightest nibble, yet whenever I pull in my line to check my bait, I always find a 

giant cod hanging on to that single hook! I make it a habit to check my bait often, 

and regardless of how often I check, I have snagged yet another cod. They do 

not bite or yank. They do not fight. They are no fun to catch whatsoever. I’ve 

fished Lexington, Michigan’s Great Lakes perch and received more battle than 

from these dead-assed cod. 

As I pull them upward from an ideal forty fathoms (120 feet), something inside 

their body ruptures as the water pressure outside the body is lessened. They are 

more dead than alive by the time they reach the water’s surface. Lifting the heavy 

beasts on board is a monumental chore. 

Very soon we wade in fish several feet deep across the deck. The Nanok will 

smell her own self again. We fillet the fish. Maggie cuts out their "cheeks" and 

"tongues." Both resemble scallops. Both are most tender and delicious. We have 

codfish chowder in the evening. Great! 

Jonesy complains that I stand better watches than he. 

August 6, Thursday; At sea. 

Still awaiting pilot launch. Hope someone has told them we are here. They must 

be coming from Timbukthree or else they have lost their paddles. 

Eating much more of the fish we caught yesterday. Finger feels fine but the 

blackened nail is about to fall off. Hair is growing back fast. Goncalves wants to 

clip me again. Forget it! 

Dreams, Connors, Jordan, Roach, and Jones take turns crying to me about 

loneliness. Acute homesickness has infected us like the plague. I feel like my 

parish priest in his confessional. Makes me wonder, where does a priest go to 

find sympathetic ears? 

I came across Abe Brill sitting on the crapper aft of the engine room, crying as 

hard as if his heart would break. As he comes out of the tiny cubicle, I give him a 

hug on impulse and he seemed to appreciate it. The thought crosses my mind 

that it is best none of the crew see me hugging Abe. Abe is the only one whose 

homesickness effects me. He erroneously feels that none of the crew likes him 

because of his frequent and lengthy seasickness spells. The moment the anchor 

62

chain rattles, Abe becomes nauseous. He remains that way until he hears the 

chain rattle again. 

Abe is of medium height and somewhat overweight. For the most part, his dark 

eyes look downward, as if in apology for his existence. He walks in the somewhat 

furtive way a dog might when stones are being thrown at him. His shoulders 

hunch forward in unnecessary defense. The only reason he has ever upset me is 

because he too often kowtows to people. Of course some of the crew dislike him, 

but we all share various degrees of dislike toward people for one stupid reason or 

another. I prefer to see the guy walking straight up, smiling, and apologetic for 

nothing. [But] seasickness has taken its toll. Abe’s face is gaunt and pale. His 

normally deep-set eyes are almost invisible in black, cavernous sockets. 

I believe seasickness is uncontrollable and is nothing to be ashamed of. My 

quarters are forward and Abe’s are aft, so I do not know whether Abe fails his 

engine room duties. I never hear complaints in this regard. Petrenko attempts to 

be amusing. He says Abe is a "gefilta fish fried in bacon grease." 

Homesickness strikes me too today. I could use more mail and less crew tears. 

August 7, Friday; BW 8. 

A U.S. Navy launch arrives at last! Commanded by Captain Nemo no doubt. A 

pilot comes on board and guides the Nanok into Sondrestromfjord. 

We cross the Arctic Circle at 1800 in latitude 66°33’ North and 55°0’30" 

West while I am on bow watch. Most of the crew are on deck to experience the 

occasion. There are flags anchored on both sides of the fjord, marking precisely 

the invisible line of the Arctic Circle. The day is beautiful, sunny, and mildly cool. 

Dark, multi-colored shades dress the high-rise mountains on both sides of the 

fjord. In some areas the mountain tops cannot be seen because they slope 

backward, inland. On our portside, ravine-creased mountainsides create giant, 

vertical shadows the sun does not penetrate. I have been trying to raise a 

moustache. Three weeks have gone by and I have hardly enough lip-fuzz to 

shape with a razor. 

Bos’n Robbins asks, "What’s that on your upper lip?" 

"You could never guess," say I. "It is a moustache." 

"I thought it was something crawling up into your nose," he says seriously. He 

comes over for a closer look. "By damn!," he grins, "It is a moustachio!" 

63

I am irritated. "Wise guy!" I throw at him. "You just don’t like moustaches," I say. 

"Well, I’ll tell ya," continues Robbie. "I wouldn’t cultivate anything around my 

mouth that grows wild around my ass!" 

That does it! I shave the fuzz off. 

Since Maggie ordered there to be no celebration when we cross the Arctic Circle, 

none was planned by the crew. But after we complete the actual crossing, the 

skipper distributes individual certificates to each of the crew. That lovable old 

bastard! It was his private secret and he would not be denied the pleasure of 

surprising us. It was a wonderfully dirty trick! He must have spent many hours 

embellishing each document with fancy scroll work. As each of us were 

individually summoned to the bridge, the old man in fiendish glee would creep up 

from behind and shear us as bald as sheep! He didn't have much of a job on my 

short wool. The shearing is traditional, I’m told. 

Spirits are boosted! An air of festivity prevailed. Clark baked a beautiful row of 

pies and tasty jello, and great coffee and triple portions of laughter, comradery, 

and singing [abound]. 


The Nanok is tied to the landing. 

I go ashore to the army hospital to have my finger x-rayed. The bone still appears 

to be separated but is knitting. 

This base airport lies eight miles from the base’s center so we will not get to see 

it. We go to see a movie in the army recreation hall but are recalled to the Nanok. 

She has to be moved. Her space is needed to dock a large incoming freighter. 

On the way back we meet a stranded Coast Guardsman whose ship simply left 

without him. This occasionally happens when men do not return to their ship on 

time. No one is important enough to have a ship await his choice of time to 

return. Either his ship will have occasion to return, or some other vessel or plane 

that will some time rendezvous with his vessel may take him along. However he 

gets back to his ship, he can be sure never to step ashore in Greenland again. 

We move the Nanok to center of fjord and drop hook. BW 8 is very large. There 

are many tons of soldiers and construction. First in command here is Colonel 

Bernt Balchen who had once been chief pilot for Admiral Byrd in the Antarctic. 

64


Because of my 0400 to 0800 watch, I cannot attend church ashore. 

Carroll "Judas Priest" or "Jen" is the D‘Artagnan of the Nanok. Rather than use 

profanity, Jenner uses the expression "Judas Priest!" Therefore, many refer to 

him as "Judas Priest." Others refer to him as "Jen" or "Jenner." Jen is by far the 

most handsome swab-jockey on board as well as a super Radioman 2/c. He is in 

the six-foot-tall range and proportioned perfectly. With dark beard and 

moustache, he strongly resembles D’Artagnan of Three Musketeers fame. At one 

time two excited nurses point him out and ask me for his name. Of course I tell 

them it is D’Artagnan. Both sigh ecstatically. 

Jen, I, and others go ashore in afternoon to see Ride ’em Cowboy, a very bad 

Abbott and Costello movie. Then back to the Nanok for a quartet, Jen, Roach, 

Chips, and me. I particularly enjoy the occasions when Macon Leroy Roach joins 

the group I happen to be singing in. Roach is an officer’s steward and the only 

negro on board. If his color is different, no one seems to notice. He is golden 

brown, very handsome, and meticulously groomed, too much so. He constantly 

frets that his hair needs trimming. He often stands for long periods of time, 

scissor-snipping at imaginary, out-of-place hairs. His normal duty is to serve 

officers only. His personal attention seems to embarrass Maggie. He and Oscar 

Dillon rarely take advantage of Roach’s special services. Instead, both officers 

choose to dine with the crew most of the time. Roach, for want of enough to 

occupy his time, assists Cookie Clark. 

Macon is blessed with a beautifully plaintive voice, especially suited to the 

singing of spirituals, many of which he teaches us. When he is of mood, his 

singing comes from the depth of his soul. His voice carries deep emotion. I am 

easily moved by his sincerity and beautiful words. His singing transports me to 

peaceful, far away places. There is almost the scent of honeysuckle and mint in 

his voice. 


I have to do some mess punk duty along with my regular watches. 

This army canteen is good to us. I have a couple of cans of beer and get my 

cigarettes for forty cents per carton. I smoke them until they are so tiny they burn 

my fingers. Maggie threatens to abolish the seastores because the crew is 

buying so much ashore. I think the canteen ashore just happens to have a 

surplus. I took a turn at punching the heavy bag at the canteen’s gym, had a 

soda-pop, and wrote a few letters. 

65

Sullivan Jones says Maggie has promised him a Coxswain’s rating. How can that 

be?! He is still a Seaman 2/c and must first become a seaman 1/c! I believe he is 

kidding me. I am, however, disturbed because Maggie has not said the same to 

me and I believe I have already earned the rating. In June, Maggie led me to 

believe the rating was on the way and I would be getting it "soon." I’ve been 

waiting to sew a Coxswain’s "crow" on my right sleeve ever since. I felt the need 

to verify my status so I broach the subject with Maggie once again. 

He retreats, saying, "It takes time and much experience to warrant a petty 

officer’s rating. And there is plenty of time and opportunity to demonstrate 

seamanship ability if one has it." 

I cannot believe I heard him correctly! Something seems to have changed 

drastically! He says not a thing about Jones. I wonder if Mister Dillon or Talledo 

may have spoken in disfavor of me? Too, I wonder how Jonesy found time to 

have proven Coxswain capabilities? 

This is all a devastating blow to me. Maggie not only sounds discouraging, he 

also implies that I am incapable! 

Nanok is stuffed with cargo and ready to shove off, but when? To where? And for 

how long? Indications are that we will head up the east coast of Eskimo land. Oh 

well. 

August 11, Tuesday; BW 8. 

I stand the 0400 to 0800 watch alone. I let Jonesy sleep. Maybe because I’m too 

jealous to speak with him about the possible forthcoming promotion. I am also 

doing mess punk duty again. 

Elmer Comer took my 1600 to 2000 watch, allowing me to go ashore with 

Fairbanks, Delaney, Vacar, and Robbins. Got a few beers from a friendly civilian 

and paid for a few myself. We saw the same damned movie we’d seen at BW 1, 

The Bugle Sounds. Back on board ship we sing Stormy Weather. 

August 12, Wednesday; BW 8. 

Chipped and painted all day. Stan and Jones were promoted to Seamen 1/c 

today. Sully must have been told about this promotion at the time the skipper 

spoke to him about the Coxs’ns rating the other day. I am happy for these two 

guys, but at the same time I feel depressed and perhaps somewhat sorry for 

myself. 

66

I begin sewing a large, canvas ditty bag for Chief McClay. 

I was awkward. Someone left a coil of heavy line lying on deck. As I walked 

along, I was looking ashore and stumbled into the pile of manila spaghetti. 

Pitching forward, I fell and sunk my front, upper teeth into the wooden gunwale. I 

could have bitten off my lip. Most embarrassing! Instant headache! No one saw 

me, thank goodness. 

Scuttlebutt is that American forces have landed in the Solomon Islands. 

August 13, Thursday; BW 8. 

Painting the boom and winch. 

Shifted position several times during the day. We were supposed to shove off at 

noon. 

Went on board the U.S.C.G. sea-going tug Arundel to see it’s much talked-about 

super sanitary engine room. Even though I saw it with my own eyes, I found it 

difficult to believe. The engine room officer must be some sort of fanatic I 

thought. It is said one can sleep in the bilges in a dress-white uniform without 

picking up a smudge of dirt. I believe it now. 

Steel deck plates glistened as if chrome-plated. Handrail rods and stanchions 

glow as polished silver with a watchmaker’s finish. All brass has been made to 

gleam like gold. Paintwork appeared to have been washed down hourly. There 

was no dust whatsoever. In only one obscure area was there a single copper 

pipe fitting that defied being sealed tight. It dripped one drop of oil every one 

minute and forty-seven seconds. To catch the drips, there was a highly polished, 

solid copper, hand-made pan. 

As I had entered this sanctum sanctorum, I was instructed to remove my shoes 

and put on a pair of rubber soled sneakers. After my tour, I hastened to put on 

my shoes and leave the premises. Had I not seen the engine room with my own 

eyes, no one could have convinced me that such a spectacle could exist. Before 

leaving the Arundel, I had coffee with the cook. He does not introduce himself to 

me. Instead, he burdens me with his homesickness and some rubs off on me. I 

hurry back to the ugly duckling Nanok. 

Cookie Clark amuses himself by singing two songs. Neither contains the correct 

lyrics. 

67


Early in a.m., we leave BW 8 and come across a scuttled foreign freighter being 

salvaged by the American vessel Iris. We meet Knute, the Iris’ 1st Mate and drink 

a bottle of his aquavit (phooie!) and about a case of his beer. We are assisted by 

Cookie Clark and the Iris’ steward. We return to the Nanok and BW 8 late. 

Clark has a masterful knack or irritating our skipper. The two are enemies. Clark 

is my mentor and dear friend. Captain Maggie is not. I think highly of Maggie as a 

man’s man and an exceptionally brilliant sailor, but I wish he knew more about 

Coast Guard customs, rules and regulations, [not to mention] chain of command 

and when and how to promote C.G. personnel. 


Shoved off about 0600. Perhaps we will begin to earn our salt. 

We tow a flat scow about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long. It is loaded with a 

variety of cargo, machine parts, food stuffs, etc. At the mouth of the fjord we 

transfer the cargo onto a foreign freighter called the Laplander. On the way back 

to BW 8, all hands are called at 1330. The scow has parted it’s towing hawser. 

Despite heavy seas and occasionally knee-deep, frigid water, we recover the 

damned thing about 1500. About 1530 the scow falls to pieces. It’s hawser is 

quickly chopped away and the scow disappears beneath the waves. Talledo 

claims the disaster is Robbins’ fault. If he had shackled the barge correctly in the 

first place, "We would not have lost her!" I wondered how shackling her 

differently could have prevented the scow from falling apart? Robbie and Talledo 

are not friends. What a colossal waste of time and energy! Robbie feels terrible 

but he need not. 

At BW 8, several civilian construction officials come on board. We are to transfer 

them to the Arundel, wherever she is now. I hope all these guys remember to 

sanitize their feet before entering the engine room. 

August 16, Sunday; Teague Field. 

We leave BW 8 early and head down fjord and out to sea a short distance, then 

back toward shore a short distance north. Some of the civilians refer to our 

destination as "Teague Field," while others call it "Marrak Point." From Maggie, 

Dillon, and Talledo, I hear "Kangamiut" and sometimes "Sukkertoppen." All I can 

be positive of, is that we are somewhat south and east of BW 8. Since we are 

68

never told officially, our destination could even be Timbuckthree. Stan calls the 

place "Frozen Asskimo Land." I choose to call it "Teague Field." I like the name. 

Teague Field is really only an airfield. There are no native villages nearby. The 

field is of smooth, flat rock, a natural pool-table surface as far as the eye can see. 

We deliver a motor sailboat. It is swung over the side by means of our starboard 

lift-boom. Talledo guides it by hand and steadies it as it is lifted. Connors controls 

the lifting device which is a horizontal, slow-turning, engine-activated, barrel 

shaped drum. Several turns of the trailing end of the boom’s hoist line are 

wrapped around the turning drum. Whenever Connors pulls the end of the line 

toward himself, the many turns around the drum tighten. Friction between drum 

and rope increases. As the rope is pulled, the opposite end of the rope begins to 

lift the boom’s end. The rope tied to the outer end of the boom leads upward and 

through a pulley near top of the mast, then down to the turning drum. The baseend 

is secured to the mast’s base by means of a steel axle. A pull on the rope by 

Connors lifts the far end of the boom and whatever happens to be secured to it, 

in this instance, the motor sailboat. 

Connors is careless. He allows one turn of the rope around the drum to creep 

under another turn around the drum. The line jams. Connors yanks at his end of 

the rope and pulls the jam loose. The boom falls. Talledo is nimble and barely 

escapes losing his life! Talledo mouth-lashes Connors and teaches all of us 

some brand new cuss words, some in his native American Indian language. 

One of the civilians on board is known only as "Tiny." He weighs over 300 

pounds. His nose, eyes, ears and mouth are buried deep in his oversized head. 

His runaway overweight immediately has my sympathy and that of most of the 

crew. Soon, however, his constant complaining becomes irritating at best. He 

cares about nothing but his personal welfare and comfort. He constantly begs 

extra food, offers to purchase our individual desserts, and hides his face to 

secretly devour whole chocolate bars in a single bite. He gorges himself while 

making noises like a flushing toilet. He offers to buy my half eaten lunch plate. I 

thought he was joking so I force a smile and push my plate slightly toward him. 

He grasped the plate and literally shoveled the remains into his tadpole looking 

mouth. I am astonished and nauseated and refuse to accept his cash offer. The 

guy is a spoiled, pampered child. I can’t wait to see him disembark. He gets 

easily and terribly seasick. He vomits wherever it is convenient for him to do so 

and leaves his mess. When the Arundel takes him on board, he better stay out of 

the engine room. 

Captain Maggie sadistically delights in seeing Tiny seasick. He asks Tiny if he’d 

like some fried salt pork and over-easy eggs. Tiny was lying in one of the crew’s 

bunk and vomits into it. I follow Maggie quickly topside for fresh air. 

Bob Hollingsworth, one of the other civilians on board, carries a portable, windup 

phonograph and a pack of records. We play the records and sing along with the 

69

ones we know. Charles "Charlie" "Rolly" Rollston is a Radioman 1/c. He is a 

married guy from Portland, Maine. He is about twenty-six-years of age, medium 

build, and mostly wears a round-faced pussycat grin. Charlie does not get 

seasick often, but when he does, he makes everyone around him as sick as he 

has made me twice today. Bob Hollingsworth is one generous soul. He has given 

each of us a chocolate bar. Because of Rollston’s presence, I save mine for a 

later time. 

August 17, Monday; Teague Field. 

This airfield is the bed of a long-gone glacier. Snow capped mountains line both 

sides of the field. Nanok's landing sight is the beginning end of the field. The far 

end is beyond eyesight. Mother nature, not bulldozers, made this field. 

Nanok lies heavily in the fjord’s water. She bulges with cargo as if she were in 

advanced pregnancy. There is much lumber and prefabricated building sections 

to be off-loaded. Skipper promises that should we somehow manage to complete 

the off-loading by sundown, we could all sack-in all day tomorrow. All hands 

accept the challenge and turn-to with gusto. We make rafts of the lumber, float 

and tow them ashore. By sundown, all rafts and miscellaneous gear are ashore! 

The outboard motorboat awaits us at the shore to return us to the Nanok at 

anchor. Elmer the Yeoman is so completely exhausted he cannot climb into the 

boat. No one can muster enough strength to help him. He bends his body over 

the boat’s gunwale and tumbles himself on board. Never in my life have I seen a 

man so completely spent. Arrival at the Nanok's side, Comer is lifted on board by 

means of a rope sling and the efforts of four men. 

Maggie breaks out a double case of canned beer and distributes it amongst 

those of us who drink it. 

"Fine fellow, the cap," says Fairbanks, raising a toast. 

"Amen" is the echo. 

The skipper has great pleasure naming much of the area after crew members. 

Maps of the area do not identify many of the area’s objects with official names. 

Maggie has taken the responsibility onto himself to properly identify all that can 

be seen. He claims his identifications will eventually appear on future official 

maps. He is serious about this. 

The bay becomes "Dillon’s Bay" after our executive officer Oscar. An island that 

disappears during high tide becomes "Staneczak’s Island." The mountains lining 

70

one side of the airfield now bears my name followed by the designation "rock." 

Most members of the crew are similarly honored. 

After a rest and a belly full of food, we enjoy a songfest. Comer has reentered the 

realm of the living. Norman Comer is a product of Danville, Indiana, near 

Indianapolis. His normal duties are to process all of Nanok's paperwork. His title 

is Yeoman 3/c. A yeoman is a petty officer whose crossed feathers insignia 

inspired the nickname "feather merchant," but the crew prefers to call him 

"Elmer" because the name seems to fit him better. 

Elmer is a slightly built, bespectacled tiger. His milquetoast appearance 

camouflages extraordinary strength in the fragile-looking guy. I have seen him 

work until muscle spasms set in. It is his display of manliness that endears him to 

me. We are close friends. He only annoys me when we vocalize together. His 

voice is so high pitched it reminds me of fingernails being drawn across a slate 

blackboard. This, plus his ever-sour, everlasting, screwed up facial expression 

grinds upon my nerves at times. 

Cold weather is my enemy, but I must acknowledge a sense of gratitude for 

being stationed in an area relatively safe from enemy forces. While I complain of 

cold weather and petty discomforts, thousands of American soldiers in warmer 

climates are dying. I experience a feeling of guilt. We are away from the States 

slightly more than a month and already I am impatient to return. Time moves 

slowly and lies heavily on my moral. We are not busy enough. There is too much 

time to think and to feel sorry for one’s self. Idleness brings on homesickness. I 

feel sure that World War II will go on forever. The grapevine has it that much sea 

and air fighting rages from Iceland ... east. 

August 18, Tuesday; Teague Field. 

We sacked-in as Maggie promised. The civilians are still on board. Bob 

Hollingsworth’s title is surveyor. His Dad is a high mukki-mukk in the Greenland 

construction project. Bob is nicknamed "Buffalo Bill" and is an excellent replica of 

the original BB. Bob wears a World War I cavalry campaign hat with the wide 

brim. His jacket is of deer skin embellished with long strands of fringe. His 

somewhat curly hair is shoulder length and is sandy brown. He sports a full, welltrimmed 

beard and moustache. Wherever he goes his portable phonograph goes 

with him. As is his father, Bob is extremely generous and is well-liked. 

Tiny has become ill over the fact that he is unable to purchase all of Bob’s supply 

of chocolate for himself. He offers me a ten dollar bill for my share. I refuse in 

disgust. I pretend to offer him my share free. He snatches them from me before I 

am able to react, and without a word of thanks! The glutton has made me ill. 

71

Maggie has been ashore and bagged two ducks. Talledo claims Maggie found 

them tied to a tree. 

We secure the Nanok for return to BW 8 in the a.m. After a session of dupa 

band music (a kazoo, jew’s harp, harmonica, and teaspoon drumsticks beating 

on a wooden table—dupa means rectum in Polish), I have a one-on-one 

conversation with Dilly. He strikes me as somewhat immature. We speak about 

my desire to become a coxswain. His cherub cheeks sort of puff up. In a most 

serious manner, his forehead wrinkled from port to starboard. He said, "Well, ’ski, 

there’s an awful lot of seamanship you still have not learned about but must 

know." 

I asked for an example and then wished I hadn’t. Oscar pursed his lips, frowned 

in deep thought, then asked, "Well, what is a traveling lizard?" 

I guessed Oscar was right. I was not prepared to become a coxswain. Time 

could come when the life of every man-jack on board could depend on my 

knowing what a traveling lizard was! 

Note: At a much later time, I searched my Bluejacket’s Manual, dictionaries, 

encyclopedias, no traveling lizard!! I even questioned all of the net-hauling old 

salts I met. Asking them about the lizard brought forth everything from baffled 

stares to uncontrollable guffaws! Finally, at Martha’s Vineyard [off Cape Cod] an 

old-timer smiled at me and wanted to know where I had heard this "quaint 

expression," for he hadn’t heard it since he "was a kid." I told him I once feared 

my future depended upon my knowing what the lizard was. "Well now," he 

harrumphed, "supposin’ you had a necessary tow line that was strung across a 

deck hatch, and you needed to enter that hatch. You would probably loop a short 

piece of thin line around the tow line and pull the tow line away from atop the 

hatch. This would not only clear the hatch for entry, but would allow the tow line 

some degree of forward and aft movement." "Yes, yes!" I said excitedly, "Then 

what?" "That’s it," the old salt replied, "the short line you would have used and 

the way you used it would make it a traveling lizard." I was astounded! At last I 

knew what a traveling lizard was! Yet, for the balance of my Coast Guard career, 

I tried to find a single instance where this knowledge could be used but failed to 

do so. I often wondered if Maggie knew what a traveling lizard was. If he did not, 

do you suppose he would never have become a skipper!? 

August 19, Wednesday; Teague Field 

Very early in the a.m., several of the crew go ashore to construct guide markers 

for future incoming vessels. In the meantime, the Nanok with half it’s crew, glides 

out to sea to guide in the Arundel, which radioed she was nearby. At sea we 

heave-to, and fish for and catch a large number of cod for dinner before the 

72

Arundel’s arrival. She comes towing quite a large scow she had lost and 

recovered twice at sea. 

I squeegeed down the pilot house and Maggie rewarded me with a can of beer. 

We left the Arundel where she had met us and went to explore a series of small 

bays having tiny islands, reefs, and fjords. I sip my beer while wheeling the 

Nanok with one hand. We had only rough maps of the area, hand-sketched by 

the natives to guide us. They showed islands where there were none, small 

coves that did not exist, and so forth. Where the maps had shown open water, 

there were shallow reefs. It was constantly "hard right, hard to the left and hard 

right" again. We were trying not to strike reefs that were only partially visible. My 

wheeling arm tired quickly so I hurried to down the beer in order to have both 

hands for steering. 

The skipper looks forward through the port shutter window and Dilly through the 

starboard. It is quite cold. The seas were not very high, but they were choppy. 

The throb of our diesel was quite loud in the pilot house. Dillon can be heard 

faintly humming to himself. No particular tune, just some melodious, openmouthed, 

"Aaaaaah, aaaaaah, aaaaaah, aaaaaaah," and so on. 

Staying on course was quite a chore. Choppy waves slapped at the Nanok's 

large rudder. There is no power steering device. The pounded rudder jerks at the 

chain leading from quadrant to wheel, and from wheel into hand and arms. 

Dillon’s humming grew ever louder and attracted occasional side glances from 

Maggie. Dillon was unaware that we heard him humming. He was in a sort of 

dreamy trance. 

I noted the skipper’s glances grow ever more frequent and angry toward Dilly. 

The throb of engine and ship vibrations caused Dillon’s hum to become staccato 

in nature. Broken "aaaaahs" reminded me of My Old Kentucky Home. It is too 

much for the skipper to bear. With a disgusted-sounding Norwegian accent he 

snorted, "Geeeezis Khrist!!" Turning swiftly he disappeared into his cabin aft. 

Dilly was startled at the skipper’s action. He looked questionably at me and 

returned to semi-consciousness. Obviously he had no idea of what set the 

skipper off, nor why I was wearing a big grin. Maggie returned, carrying his 

favorite drink, a can of beer usually laced with a large slug of dry gin. He 

appeared to have calmed down. Both Maggie and Dilly looked out their shutters 

again. 

A few minutes later, I couldn't believe it ... Dillon began to hum loudly once again! 

I’d give anything for a couple large gulps of Maggie’s beer. Dillon’s humming 

became louder than an evangelist’s admonitions. Quite casually his eyes had 

turned toward me. My sardonic grin caused Oscar to snap out of his reverie. His 

face sobered and he swallowed with much difficulty. He blushed profusely. 

73

"What course are you steering?" he asked, as if it mattered. 

After watch I tell Vacar about the humming incident. He laughed so hard he said 

he feared his bowels would move. Nicholas Vacar is a motor machinist mate 2/c. 

Nick sums up Greenland precisely to the taste of many crew members. He says 

it is a "cold, damp, snowy, rainy, lonely, intimidating, terrifying, insect-ridden, 

fascinating, favorite cuss subject." Nick would like to explore the "White Shirt 

Land" under different circumstances. He finds it to be a fisherman’s paradise. A 

wonderful place to get close to our creator because "it instills a sense that man is 

indeed a grain of sand." 

Vacar is a rugged looking fellow from Salem, Ohio. He is stocky and powerfully 

built. His appearance is deceiving in that he is also a deeply sensuous person 

and eloquent of thought. Nick should have been a writer. He is a florist that 

assembles beautiful words into bouquets. For amusement and for want to 

convert otherwise lonely hours, Nick composes love letters for several of our less 

eloquent but love struck crew members. They copy Vacar’s romantic words to 

send to their loved ones. I believe his writings will be influential in bringing about 

a certain marriage when we return stateside. 

August 20, Thursday; Teague Field. 

The Nanok crew assists the Arundel crew into maneuvering the scow to the 

shore tie-up. They demonstrate very little seamanship knowledge. Chances are 

none of them have ever known a traveling lizard either. 

Several Eskimo men come on board to trade four dead ducks to Clark for some 

biscuits and candy. We prepare for shore liberty but first we must listen to 

Maggie’s clack-clacking about how and why we shouldn’t dare to get intimate 

with any of the Eskimo women. He is scared as hell that one of us guys might run 

a hand down into the front of some woman’s pants. The idea isn’t bad, but 

opportunity seems remote. Per Maggie, the Eskimos are uneducated for the 

most part, therefore should not be taken advantage of, especially sexually. I’m 

not sure how a lack of education and sex are related, but at the moment I choose 

to heed the skipper’s warning. 

Ashore we met up with an Eskimo family and have an amusing hour or so 

grinning at one-another. Later, around the bend of the beach, we came across a 

group of Eskimo women. They must have been from a village nearby, or else had 

an umiak (a large sealskin boat) beached somewhere. 

Bob Hollingsworth and his phonograph are with us. He cranked up the machine 

and it grinds out a scratchy tune. Without too much effort we recruit the women 

74

into dancing in a snake-like conga chain. This allows female hips to be felt. The 

ladies take to the game gleefully, but not as eagerly as did the crew. 

When we reach near exhaustion, we sat on large beach rocks and just listen to 

the music. The women loved the sounds. They are a varied age group. There 

were seven of us and nine women. It is apparent that someone has played music 

here before. Bob played The Isle of Capri and The Beer Barrel Polka. The 

women have heard these tunes before. Eskimo lyrics are added to the music. 

They had sung the tunes in the past. Results are delightfully strange and 

pleasant. 

One of the women was a midget. She attaches herself to me. I bounce her on my 

knee as a ventriloquist’s doll. She loved it. The doll was about forty-two inches 

high and weighed probably seventy pounds. I am six-foot-two inches tall and 

weigh 176 pounds. We must have made a strange-looking pair. She wanted me 

to carry her off somewhere amongst the giant rocks. Her breasts were like small 

chicken eggs. I am twenty-two-years old. She must have been in her late thirties. 

She pulled my hand to her tiny breasts. I pulled it away, I was embarrassed. I 

had never before known an aggressive female. Too, it had been a long, lonely 

time away from my wife and I feared temptation. She spoke soft words that were 

repetitious. They are the first words other sailors had taught us in Greenland. The 

words have a spine-tingling ring to them when spoken by a female. 

A familiar excitement stirred within me. I am weakening. Stench of urine in the 

woman’s clothing helps clear my head as ammonia fumes might. I pulled her 

arms from around my neck. She smiled but was obviously disappointed. I was 

too, in a way. I noticed for the first time that her teeth were horribly decayed. Her 

breath was not much better than the odor from her clothing. Nausea overcomes 

me. I arose and she slid off my knee. 

Too late!! Captain Maggie has rounded the bend in the beach! I and some of the 

others had been seen with the ladies! Maggie pretended not to have seen too 

much. With only a touch of anger in his voice, he ordered all of us to return to the 

Nanok. Some of the crew had successfully scurried away among the larger rocks 

and had been unseen by the skipper. They were fortunate. Maggie chastises me 

as though I had married the midget lady for an hour or so. 

I return to the Nanok as if returning from my first teen-age date, frustrated and 

hurting in a certain area of my lower body. I might be feeling much worse if the 

skipper had not come along, but in a much different way. 

August 21, Friday; At sea. 

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Maggie made a snide remark that I tried to have sex with the Eskimo midget, and 

that he felt that I should have my "ass kicked!" I responded with a foolish burst of 

anger and told him my affairs were none of his business! Surprisingly, he backed 

off. 

The skipper does a turnabout and renames the bay after himself instead of 

Dillon. 

Shoved off at 0730. Seas are rough as we head back toward BW 8. I am very 

tired. 

August 22, Saturday; At sea. 

0400 to 0800 bow watch was an ordeal. Solid, heavy, blue-green waves fly back 

over the bow and knock me to my knees a number of times. I was cold and wet. 

Water managed to trickle into my parka, around my face and around my neck 

front. We wallowed outside the fjord leading to BW 8, waiting to enter the fjord 

with the tide. Some try doing a bit of fishing, I do a bit of sack time. Maggie has 

apologized to me for making his unfair statement about me and the midget lady. I 

am very surprised at this, and grateful. 

I am quite depressed today. Melancholia has set in. I tried to brighten up by 

joining a songfest. Sullivan Jones’s deep bass vibrates pots and pans on the 

stove. A couple of sad sounding ballads bring on homesickness. Songfest ends. 


Surprised to see the flag at half mast. We learn two men have burned to death 

the other day. They chose to wash grease off the closed garage floor with 

gasoline. Gas fumes caused an explosion. A third man is near death with brain 

damage. A flying plank struck him in the head. 

Life goes on. 

Ashore we see movie Babes on Broadway starring Mickey Rooney and Judy 

Garland. A fine picture. In evening we shoot craps. 


The army has given me and others new army shoes. I love ’em. 

76

We install an antenna extension on our forward mast. The Nanok is loaded with 

food, water, drums of high octane gasoline, black powder, and dynamite. Ye 

gads! All civilians have disembarked, including Tiny and his body odor. Thank the 

Lord for small favors. In exchange we take on an army major. 

August 25, Tuesday; At sea. 

We leave BW 8 behind. Feel "salty" as hell! I have exactly one year in the USCG 

today, a year too much! 

Ran smack-dab into a heavy gale. One quarter of the Nanok is under water at all 

times. Army major promptly becomes seasick. 

August 26, Wednesday; Teague Field. 

We arrive and offload drums of fuel all day. Stan is in his glory. He is desperate 

to precede me into the Coxswain’s rating. So long as he earns it properly, it’s 

gotta be OK, right? 

Tiny and Buffalo Bill are here. How in hell did they beat the Nanok here!? 

Maggie tells Cookie to "throw it out!" And he does. What a terrific meal! 

Talledo dashes about as though he has lost his tail somewhere. His damn 

shouting is loud to the point of splitting ear drums. It is difficult to bear and 

impossible to hide from. 

Did my laundry by dragging it in the sea astern of the Nanok and near lost it in 

the howling gale and heavy seas. Got seasick but no one knew it beside myself, 

thank goodness. Prospective Coxswains, like skippers, are never supposed to 

get seasick. 

Schafer has been acting very strange lately, more so today. He talks aloud to 

himself, asks himself questions and answers them. The poor guy needs a doctor. 

August 27, Thursday; Teague Field. 

Dilly took over Connors’ and Stan’s watch last night and awakens me to take 

over the midnight to four watch. He had to give me two calls. I was so tired I half 

77

dozed through my watch. Rained all through the watch. Our radio works quite 

well since Schafer picked up a few parts for it recently. 

Only Buffalo Bill is with us, no Tiny, thank God! Bill, Cookie, Robbins, and myself 

had a bull session on the fo’c’s’le head. We depart Teague Field, bound for BW 

8, then what? 


We arrive and lay at anchor. Tug Bridgeport came to pump fresh water on board. 

We did an about face and headed back out to sea. As we are leaving the 

freighter Lapwing arrived with supplies for the base. Our mail was supposed to 

be on the Arundel with whom we were to rendezvous at the mouth of the fjord. 

We crossed the Arctic Circle for the umpteenth time. No one pays any attention 

any more. 

Scuttlebutt has it, that we will head north on the east coast, for a change, to BE 

2. From the way they describe weather conditions along the coast, I don’t care to 

go. 

Buffalo Bill and Robbins join our sing-along in the evening. Robbie is an 

emotional second tenor. For some reason he cannot sing with open eyes. It is 

amusing to watch the eyelashes of this rugged man flutter when he sings. Robbie 

wears a continual expression of worry. He is a sympathetic listener, a competent, 

likeable, hard working bos’n. 

August 29, Saturday; At sea. 

We arrive and drop hook at mouth of BW 1 fjord. Nanok drifts aground stern-first 

and the anchor is stuck fast. There are many anxious moments until the winch 

pulls the anchor that seemed to be stuck some fifty miles beneath our keel. 

We are off and running and enter a fjord where the Arundel is found anchored. 

We rendezvous but she has no mail for us. Very disappointing. 

Clark and I exchange tall tales on the gun deck during my evening watch. 

August 30, Sunday; At sea. 

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Half chicken per man for dinner. Yeah man!! How Clark got some of this stuff we 

may never know and he will not tell. He is some kind of a finagler. 

I sack-in most of the day, just reading. Very rough seas in the evening. Hope 

there’s mail at BW 1 by now but I doubt it. 


At anchor just inside of BW 1 fjord until foul weather forces us to head toward the 

base. On the way we narrowly miss running into reefs but old eagle-eye 

Fairbanks spots them in time to prevent a catastrophe. 

George does not appear well but he does not complain. He converses less and 

less. I am too weary to see if he needs cheering up. 

At BW 1, several of us visit on board the USCG Cutter Algonquin. She escorted 

nine freighters up from Sydney, Nova Scotia. 

Still no mail. 

There are endless rumors of war activities, but they are only rumors. Being so far 

removed from the areas of heavy warfare, we will probably never learn of current, 

factual activities. It is just as well. If we were told of great Allied victories, we 

would probably not believe them. If we were told of severe Allied losses, 

depression might set in. All I care to learn one day is that the war has ended and 

the allies are victorious. 

September 1942 

We still don’t know the fate of the three men on the scow. We can only hope the 

cabin latch of the motor-sailor on the scow is unlocked. If not, the men will have 

to break out a pane of the shutter glass to gain entry into the tiny cabin for 

refuge. If this should be necessary, water would spill into the cabin and the men 

could freeze to death, providing they have not already been swept overboard. 

September 1, Tuesday; BW 1. 

Hot dog! 

Received letters from sister Joann, the Fitzgeralds, and Lucille. Total thirteen. 

79

Letters from home are read, reread, reread, and reread. Some we exchange with 

one another. It is possible to learn more about one’s shipmates than about one’s 

brother. Sometimes I feel that I am a member of a half-dozen families. 

Worked hard all day trying to avoid the blues. Jonesy and I do some cable 

splicing on deck just forward of the pilot house so the skipper up in the pilot 

house can witness our expertise. I splice a thimble in a two inch cable in my 

quickest time ever. I use only a marlin spike, cutting pliers, several short lengths 

of 21 thread line, and an old broom stick, no vise. I surprised myself as well as 

Maggie who witnessed it from above. 

Maggie demands that every seaman be capable of doing this, yet he is 

astonished that I did so! Maggie's logic is good. Says we need cable and rope 

splicing only when the ship is in some sort of trouble, and trouble only occurs 

during bad weather and emergencies. At such times there is no time to set up a 

vise. Besides, the Nanok has no splicing vise on board. Hoped my display will 

impress the old man that I just might be able to handle a Coxswain’s duties. 

Met a number of the crew outside the civilian canteen. Some are drunk as hell 

and loaded with cans of beer. They paid some civilian workers high dollars for 

the stuff. It came about because Connors knew somebody who knew somebody. 

All Connors would do for me is to help me get a bit of pogey bait (candy). 

One day some time ago, I had been in the pilot house temporarily relieving Mr. 

Dillon, who was having stomach cramps. I stood looking out the forward port 

shutter opening. Maggie was at the starboard. Connors was steering. His 

position was several feet to our rear, and at the ship’s center. We three were in a 

period of silence, just studying icebergs in the distance. Through a side glance I 

happened to see a tell-tale flutter of Connor’s eyelashes. I knew the flutter well. 

The guy was about to enter dreamland while standing and tending the wheel. I 

was amused and cleared my throat quite loudly to arouse his attention. There 

was no response. 

The Nanok's wheel is very large, it’s top curvature is chest high. There were no 

heavy seas to whiplash the wheel. It was steady and did not have to be moved 

more than an occasional inch in either direction to hold the Nanok on course. 

There was no sound other than the lulling throb of the diesel engine below deck, 

under foot. Connor’s eyes were closing. He comfortably draped his left arm over 

a wheel spoke, then the other arm. A few moments later, he draped his left leg 

over a lower spoke. He stood like a stork on one leg, a tired scarecrow. 

"Get up Dreams! Get up!!" I muttered under my breath. 

Dreams did not move. He was comfortable and relaxed. He soon cradled his 

head on his right shoulder and fell asleep! 

80

An iceberg, two points off our starboard bow, began moving exceptionally fast 

across our bow and off to port. Maggie watched it go and seemed to be amazed 

at it’s speed of travel. He was not yet aware that the berg was not moving, but 

that the Nanok's bow was turning slowly to starboard. Suddenly he turned to look 

at Dreams who appeared to be impaled on the wheel. The skipper shouted with 

his Norwegian accent: "Schteady, Dreems! ... Gah-gahnitt! ... Schteady!!" 

Dreams let out a sharp, involuntary snort and came alive. 

Requested photos have been arriving from the states to the menfolk at BW 1 

who had written home for them after the nurses arrival. It was apparent that most 

requests were for cheesecake type poses and many of the recipients kept theirs 

selfishly hidden from hungry male eyes other than their own. Even the most 

elderly men were receiving photos of their ill-proportioned women in shorts, 

skimpy costumes, and brief bathing suits. One oldster, overly proud of his wife, 

insisted on sharing her photo with me. She resembled a five-pound sausage in a 

three-pound casing. Her poor legs were a road map of varicose veins. To her 

husband, she was all that is beauty, sex personified. Who was I to judge? 

Several men became embattled over pictures of their respective amour. Each 

had stolen the other’s photo. Somehow I did not feel my short term of marriage 

so centered on sex. I wondered if I were normal. 

September 2, Wednesday; BW 1. 

Worked all day like a dog, no, two dogs! 

More mail from home, hot spit!! 

Spliced a steel thimble into one end of a four inch diameter rope hawser and a 

few other jobs. 

Schafer has been assigned to permanent detail ashore here. He has been acting 

strangely lately. One cold morning he walked in his underwear, grasping the 

starboard quarter gunwale and yelling, "man overboard, man overboard!!" His 

eyes were popping out of his head as he appeared to be climbing the horizontal 

gunwale. He is tremendously homesick and still broods over the fact that his 

aged mother has to live alone. I will miss the guy. 

Saw the scow we are to tow off to somewhere distant. It is more than twice as 

long and twice as wide as the Nanok. It is a flat, rectangular lump of floating 

steel. It has no superstructure whatsoever. Entrance into it’s hollow hull is via the 

removal of several, bolted-down manhole covers. The hull is partially filled with 

cargo, from precision tools to small electrical equipment, to 250 double cases of 

81

canned beer. We are not allowed inside. Atop the scow, there is a large wooden 

cradle fastened to the deck. It holds a motor sailboat of some twenty two feet. 

The boat has a tiny cabin with glass shutters around it’s perimeter. Because of 

the scow’s large size, Maggie anticipates difficulty if we encounter heavy seas. 

The steel thimble (eyelet) I spliced into the hawser’s end will be used with a 

shackle to secure the hawser to a chain bridle at the front end of the scow. The 

opposite end of the hawser will be secured to a chain bridle in the Nanok's stern. 

Dexter is a Radioman 3/c, a Mormon from Salt Lake City, Utah. We harass him 

by insisting that all men from Utah are cowpokes who tote two guns each. 

Therefore Dexter is called "Two Gun." Dexter is a quiet, medium-sized book 

worm. His general appearance is that of a true cowpoke. Whenever he is not 

reading, he is constantly badgering Vacar to join the Mormon faith. Why only 

Vacar? Who knows? I tell Vacar it is because only he on board ship looks like he 

could handle more than a few wives at a time. Vacar protests, but not vigorously. 

News: Nazi Field Marshal Erwin Rommel has launched a vicious new attack in 

Egypt. 

September 3, Thursday; Julianehåb. 

We depart very, very early and arrive very late at Julianehåb with scow in tow. 

Half the crew get liberty ashore. 

We trade candy, chew-gum, and cigarettes for sealskin cushions, wood and bone 

carvings, and miniature sealskin kayaks. I want to acquire a few of these handmade 

souvenirs for Lucille. 

Trading with the Eskimos is a trial of patience. An aged gentleman eases himself 

toward me as I am encircled by a group of younger Eskimos. I show him a 

cigarette and he grins at me as he comes closer. I put the cigarette into my 

mouth, pretend to puff on it, then return it to my shirt pocket. This lets him know I 

want more than a grin for the cigarette. He tries to appear disinterested. I turn my 

back on him and slowly move away into the crowd. He shouts at me! He is 

grinning broadly now and is holding up a miniature kayak for me to see. It is 

beautiful and perfectly detailed. It is edged with fine, delicately-carved fowl bone. 

There are several tiny wooden spears with barbs of bone. To the trailing end of 

the spear is attached a thin, long string of rawhide. The line is coiled in a basketlike 

rack atop the kayak and just forward of the passenger’s cockpit. If the barbed 

spear is thrown at a bird, even in flight, and if the spear’s point misses it’s target, 

one of the six-inch-long barbs sticking out the sides of the spear may impale the 

unfortunate bird. When the spear is thrown, the rawhide line plays out of it’s 

holder and is used to retrieve the spear. Spears used in hunting seals usually do 

not have the side barbs. When a spear enters a seal, the front, pointed end of the 

82

spear is designed to come loose from it’s long handle. The handle of wood will 

float and can be retrieved easily. The point of the spear will remain in the animal. 

Usually the injured seal will dive deeply, but will remain attached to the 

spearpoint. After the animal’s strength has been spent, or after the animal has 

died, the rawhide line, still attached to the spearpoint, is used to pull the animal 

up from the water’s depths and to tow it to shore. It’s blood is immediately drunk 

and I become immediately ill. 

The kayak model held by the aged Eskimo even has a miniature hunter in the 

cockpit. It wears a tiny leather jumper. It must have taken weeks to create this 

model! I try to hide my excitement. I want the hand-crafted masterpiece 

desperately! I offer the man one cigarette. His smile is gone. The model 

disappears into the man’s clothing. He resumes the pretense of not being 

interested, but he is not leaving. 

My patience is being tested. An eternity passes. I pull out a full pack of cigarettes 

(which cost me forty cents a carton.) The brown-skinned huckster pretends not to 

notice. Another eternity passes. He must sense my impatience and rising anger. 

A faint grin of impending victory appears for a flashing moment on the man’s 

face. 

I am angry but try not to allow it to be seen. I am not successful. Without further 

ado, and to hurry the annoying procedure of bartering, I produce a packet of 

chew-gum and a large tootsie roll and add them to the two full packs of 

cigarettes. 

The old beggar laughs at me! 

"Go to hell!!" I shout and turn away. 

He shouts back at me. Neither of us knows what the other says, but the tones of 

our voices speak an understandable language. He hands me the kayak ... we 

have struck a deal! 

I grasp the kayak with my free right hand, but he does not let loose of it! I 

understand. I allow him to grasp my goodies in his one free hand. He nods and 

we simultaneously relinquish the hold on our goods. The kayak is mine! It is a 

bargain! I am, however, still angry! Since the huckster cannot understand me, I 

shout at him. "You’re a stickin’ thief!" His smile broadens and he stuffs his 

goodies inside his clothing. Then, he pokes the index finger of his right hand into 

a circle with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand. I get the meaning. Two 

‘stinkin’ thieves’ laugh together. 

Me and several of the crew are invited to visit inside a few Eskimo huts. They are 

hardly more than shacks of stone, sod, driftwood, and other debris. In each, there 

83

is a stench of urine, or of fish that must have died of old age, or of both. Much 

Eskimo clothing is of seal and other animal hides and are infested with lice. 

Before being fashioned into articles of clothing, skins must be cured, softened, or 

otherwise tenderized. As I recall from civilian life, salt is necessary in the process 

of curing hides. I feel sure the Danish Government provides salt for whatever 

purpose needed, along with proper instructions on how to cure hides. We are 

told, however, that in some remote areas, Eskimos still cure hides in a primitive 

manner. They choose to use their own urine salts for curing purposes. One of the 

English-speaking natives explains how urine curing is done. As best we can 

understand, one urinates onto the skin and then chews on it until it becomes 

sufficiently pliable for clothing purposes. 

Late in the evening, all but Cookie Clark have returned to the Nanok. Maggie is 

angry and will not allow anyone to go to fetch Clark. I stand late evening watch in 

the pilot house with the skipper. Every few moments he blasts the Nanok's 

whistle to signal Clark to return. He constantly scans the beach with binoculars. 

Even without binoculars I can see, and faintly hear, female laughter. 

September 4, Friday; Julianehåb. 

Cookie got back on board very late last night. Don’t know how because we left 

him no dory to use. He had to have returned via umiak. Several hitch hikers on 

board. Among them our friend Tiny. He brings along a heavy quilt to assure 

himself optimum comfort. He offers to pay crew members to carry his meager 

belongings on board. Even for a hundred [in] cash he would be hard pressed to 

find anyone to assist his laziness. 

Many kayaks come out to the anchored Nanok to trade and to surround the 

Nanok. Trading is good. I acquire a four-inch-high hand-carved wooden Eskimo 

head and two leather match box covers. Most of the crew are allowed ashore for 

one last visit before we leave. 

Eskimos love music. Most of theirs is made by beating a shallow drum with a thin 

stick. The drum resembles a tambourine without the small metal discs. The drum 

is struck in rhythm with their singing and their chanting. Eskimo dance motions 

mimic actions of legendary birds and beasts of prey. Chantings are of ancient 

days and deeds of old. 

The villagers perform an impromptu dance in the Nanok crew’s honor. In 

appreciation, Cookie and I do a half-assed version of a country-style barn dance. 

The Greenlanders went wild at our ‘doe-see-doe’ gyrations. We become 

instantaneous matinee idols. Elders grinned in toothless delight. We bow and 

curtsy to flatter them. John Barrymore would envy Clark’s flourishing gestures. 

An ancient gentleman was carried away by our performance. He forgot his age 

84

and shriveled muscles. He joined our dance and beat hell out of his thin drum like 

Gene Krupa might have. He ignored the fact that his drum had no skin cover. He 

beat his stick on the rim of the drum. 

After we all had tired of the dance, we casually strolled through the area of 

mostly huts and the occasional brightly painted houses where the Danes lived. 

We wound our way up the gently sloping hillside on narrow paths that snaked 

their way between large boulders. 

A large group of children followed, begging for goodies. My parka pockets were 

stuffed, but selfishly I hoped to use the goodies for trading, [as] they were not 

easy to come by. Too, I had to deprive myself the pleasure of eating them. I gave 

none away freely. Eventually, kids would get their share through their parent’s 

trading. If goodies were more available, I would enjoy sharing with the kids. Their 

grubby faces and pleading eyes told me what their language could not. It was 

most difficult to ignore the little beggers. 

We paused at the top of a hill at the extreme outer edge of the village. Being 

occupied with the magnificent view and shouts of the children, I was not aware 

that all of the crew had fallen away and were distantly returning to the beach. I 

was alone with at least fifteen jumping, yelling, hyper children. Their pleadings 

were no longer bearable. I decided to distribute some ‘chew gum’ and sections of 

a few Tootsie Rolls. Hands reached toward me from all directions. It was 

impossible to pass out the candy as quickly as the children wanted me to. They 

began to tear at my parka. I shouted at them to be patient. They did not 

understand. Hands had accidentally clawed my face and I panicked. A pudgy 

finger poked my open eye. I was unable to move in the crowd. A little girl about 

hip-height had grasped the edge of my parka pocket and I cannot pry her little 

hand loose. She is a determined little tyke and her eyes shined with the frenzy of 

her desire. Finally the hand came away but it held a part of my pocket and 

several packets of ‘chew gum’. She had won her phase of the battle and 

disappeared in the mass of struggling children. 

Instead of scaring the kids with my shouting, I attracted many women who poked 

heads out of huts. My plight was seen. Women rushed to yank their children off 

me. Soon the children were gone. I was safe, but panting. No!! I am not safe! The 

women then were clawing at me for the goodies. I had no more left with which to 

appease the screaming females. Eskimo men looked on in amusement. 

Desperately I try to push the horde away. I break and run through them like a 

freshly castrated musk ox. A long line of women and children pursued me in a 

zig-zag course. We must have resembled a conga chain in polka tempo. The 

tormentors were at my heels! 

Buffalo Bill Holingsworth and the others were at the base of the hill. They saw me 

in flight and my situation struck them as being hilariously funny. Bill and Oscar 

Dillon were taking snapshots of me and my pursuers. I chose not to stop and 

85

chat, but dashed swiftly into a beached dory and shoved off. The beach was 

lined with panting, female demons! I will never play generous host again. 

Back on board ship, Maggie assigns me to direct a group of Eskimos to load 

dorys and sends me back ashore. 

I am constantly amazed at how kids looking no more than five-years-old manage 

to master kayaks. They skitter about like water spiders that never seem to chew 

all of the flavor out of their everlasting ‘chew-gum.’ An entire family of Eskimos 

circle the Nanok at anchor. The come to say "goodbye" to their favorite 

ambassador of goodwill, Cookie Clark. He peers over the side and receives an 

ovation from them. I try to imagine how close they would be if they understood 

one-another’s language. 

We hoist hook and travel south and east. We heave-to and drift outside some 

unidentified fjord for the night. 

September 5, Saturday; Unidentified fjord. 

We enter the fjord in the a.m. just as heavy winds begin to rise. Nanok hurried 

into shelter of the fjord. 

No white man is supposed to have ever been here before. We drop hook and a 

few kayaks come out to greet us. When the kayaks draw near, we hear a familiar 

word, "nah-nook, nah-nook, nah-nook!" How they learned the name of our vessel 

we can only guess. A second surprise, an adult male Eskimo is wearing a United 

States Army shirt with a sergeant’s chevrons on the sleeves! It is at least a clue 

to how they know the Nanok's name. Since the village is many miles from 

nowhere, the sergeant who originally owned the shirt must have been an 

excellent swimmer. Each of our crew have their own theory as to how the shirt 

got here. 

We lay in the fjord and do a bit of trading. The guy in the sergeant’s shirt is 

dubbed "Sarge." He is full of comical antics. I happen to have an ancient copy of 

Life magazine in my hand. Sarge wants to see it close-up. I hand it to him and 

allow him to keep it. He is fascinated. As he thumbs through it, one picture after 

another captures his delight. He points to a picture, then points southward and 

asks, "Ahmerika?" 

I nod and say "yes." 

He seems amazed that there are so many interesting-looking people in 

"Ahmerika." How we has even learned of America’s existence is also a mystery. 

Someone suggested that Sarge is really Amerigo Vespucci. 

86

Sarge soon comes across a full-page picture of a deeply tanned American 

beauty in a white, tight, and skimpy bathing suit. His heart must have stopped. 

He examines every fraction of the photo with caressing eyes. He gulps, points to 

the picture, then toward the south. He asks, incredulously, "Ahmerika!?" 

"Yes," I laugh, "Ahmerika." 

Without hesitation Sarge points first to himself, then southward. 

"Ahmerika?" 

Again I have to laugh. Obviously he wants to go to America with us. Our 

language barrier does not help me to disillusion him. I would like to tell him that if 

all American women looked like the magazine model every man on earth would 

head toward America. 

For amusement, I promise him, "yes," with a nod, I would take him to America. 

He is elated to say the least. If I had any idea how serious the man was, I would 

not have made such a promise. He shoves off toward shore, swiftly! 

Maggie and Dillon practice firing the three-inch twenty-three blunderbuss at 

white-capped mountains of stone nearby. Echoes of each shot seem to last five 

minutes. The sound ricochets from peak to peak and shock waves vibrate the 

surface of the water. Sound is like a giant steel ball bearing bouncing off one 

obstacle after another in a pin-ball machine. Both men also practice firing our 20 

mm anti-aircraft guns. Every fifth cartridge is called a "tracer." Each tracer slug is 

a ball of red flame whose flight can be followed with the naked eye. It is 

fascinating to see the red balls of fire pierce walls of ice and disappear within 

them. 

In evening we get under weigh with scow in tow hundreds of feet astern of the 

Nanok. 

Abe Brill is madder than hell at me. Someone told him I stole some of his 

chocolate bars but I have not. If I had known where he had them stashed, I may 

well have gobbled a few. 

As we move slowly out of the fjord, I see Sarge paddling toward the Nanok as 

fast as a speedboat. He is shouting. I interpret his shouts to mean "Hey! Wait for 

me!" Maggie wonders what in hell is going on. I pretend not to know. Sarge has a 

large bundle on the front of his kayak. Odds are that it contains all of his earthly 

belongings. Several Eskimos in other kayaks paddle swiftly on either side of the 

Sarge. They keep trying to snatch things from Sarge’s bundle. It may be the 

magazine they are after. Sarge is alternately shouting at me and slapping away 

the probing hands of his escorts. I feel guilty for aiding the Sarge’s fantasy. 

87

The Nanok picks up speed and heads toward the open sea. For a time Sarge 

keeps pace and screams himself hoarse. I wish I had jotted down the magazine’s 

date and the model’s name. It’s a shame she will never know of her greatest 

admirer’s existence. I must remember to inform Life magazine to begin a 

lucrative Greenland distribution center. 

The Sarge’s strength wanes. He is seeing his dream fade toward the horizon. 

Nanok runs at her maximum pace now. Perhaps Sarge will carry a torch for his 

dream-love forever. Could be he may join the French Foreign Legion to forget. I 

am a lousy cupid. 

September 6, Sunday; Unidentified fjord. 

We are anchored in an unidentified fjord. Captain Magnusson never ceases to 

amaze me with his uncanny sixth sense. Daylight is breaking. I half-doze, alone 

on watch in the pilot house. Suddenly there is commotion in the skipper’s cabin. 

His hatch pops open and in flies the skipper! I think he has lost his sanity. He is 

barefoot and is wearing long, winter underwear and his visored cap, nothing else! 

His eyes are wild and he shouts: "What would you do if the ship was drifting!?" 

I was startled full awake. "Why," I stammered, "I’d call you sir!" 

"Well, call me then," he snarled, "because we are drifting!" 

I opened an outer hatch and looked aft. Sure enough, the Nanok's stern was no 

more than a hundred feet off a rock-strewn shore! No time to waken the deck 

crew. As I raised the anchor, captain Maggie drove the Nanok forward and away 

from danger. 

It took a bit of time to figure out how he knew the ship was drifting. It was quite 

simple really. As he lay in his bunk with the side of his face firmly down into his 

pillow, he could hear the anchor drag across the fjord’s rocky bottom! We leave 

the sanctity of the fjord and proceed to sea once again. Days such as this, that 

have a bad beginning, seem to embrace bad things all day. 

Tiny complains loudly and continuously about the heavy seas that pound the 

Nanok. Someone offers to calm the sea for ten bucks. Without thinking , Tiny 

reaches for his wallet. 

Scow in tow is coming along fine. Damned waves ... feeling sick in the stomach. 

September 7, Monday; At sea. 

88

As Maggie has often warned, trouble with ship equipment occurs during bad 

weather. We were to learn whether or not his teachings are of merit because the 

scow in tow has broken loose from it’s hawser! Ragged seas and monstrous 

waves dwarf the Nanok. Solid walls of black and gray-blue waters break over the 

deck. Heavy rain is driven by howling winds that gust over 100 miles per hour. 

Dark, fractured clouds appear to touch wave tops. 

Maggie signals the engine room and the diesel is loping to a halt. The skipper 

sounds the emergency alarm: "All hands on deck!" 

As men break topside, the scow has already been blown from sight. Sheets of 

rain and scattered icebergs hamper vision. Before the propeller stops turning, the 

slackened hawser becomes entangled in it. Several loops of the heavy manila 

rope are wound around the propeller’s axle shaft. Some six hundred feet of it 

hangs straight down in the ocean. Captain Magnusson makes clear the 

importance of recovering the scow. It is extremely valuable mostly because of 

irreplaceable scientific equipment in it’s hold. Too, it is almost priceless in itself 

because it could take months to duplicate and to haul it from the States. There is 

an urgent need for the scow at Pikiutleq where it is to be used as a floating dock. 

Before attempting to locate the drifting scow, we must first retrieve the hawser. 

Robbins, Stan, and I alternate being lowered over the Nanok's stern by rope. 

Objective is to secure the hawser with a light line so that men can lift a portion of 

it up so that it can be unwound one loop at a time. 

Work is laborious, frustrating, wet, and extremely cold. To acquire a purchase on 

the hawser, we must work under water. Roll of the vessel and smashing waves 

add to the difficulty. Arms, legs and fingers stiffen quickly. Thank heaven there 

are but two loops to remove. Both Stan and I are unsuccessful in our attempts. It 

is for Robbie to achieve the impossible. Eternity ends, the hawser is lifted and 

pulled free through use of a capstan on deck, but not before Stan nearly loses a 

few gloved fingers trapped in the many turns of [the] hawser around the turning 

capstan. No one is ever to wear gloves under these circumstances, Maggie 

growls at Stan. 

There is time for warmth, a breather, cup of coffee, and a change into warm, dry 

clothing as the Nanok seeks it’s wayward tow. All hands are again summoned 

when the scow is again sighted. Seas are much too rough to pull alongside. 

Waves could easily toss at least a section of the scow onto the Nanok or vice 

versa. Maggie decides a dory must be put over the side with three men in it. 

They are to carry a line and secure it to the scow’s chain bridle and row back to 

the Nanok. 

Volunteers are requested. Chief Talledo, Connors, and I offer our services. A 

dory is lowered over the port side and twice the raging sea tosses it back atop 

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the Nanok's gunwale. The second time, it slides off the gunwale and lands atop 

several men. There are bruises and curses but no serious injuries. 

By now the scow has again drifted from sight. We locate her again. Maggie 

positions the Nanok between wind and scow and stops the engine. Several 

barrels of oil are poured onto the sea. Oil film helps to level choppy waves. 

Portside is to leeward. 

Again a dory is slid over the gunwale by hand and is allowed to fall into the sea. 

Oars had been lashed atop the dory’s thwarts. My sheath knife has been wedged 

between strakes and ribs. We three wear thick, kapok-filled life jackets in case 

the dory should capsize. 

The plan is for all three men to leap into the dory. Chief Talledo insists on being 

the oarsman. He is to pull my sheath knife loose, cut away the oar lashings, and 

row the dory away from the Nanok’s side as quickly as possible. Connors and I 

are to fend the dory away from the Nanok’s side to avoid capsizing and to give 

Talledo time to extend and use the oars. 

Time has come, we scramble over the gunwale and are about to leap ... but the 

dory is gone! On a receding wave it has plummeted downward and partially 

under the ship’s belly, completely out of our sight! Suddenly, she rises atop 

another wave! Up it comes and over the side go Talledo and Connors. I jump but 

the dory is gone and I am left clinging to the outboard side of the ship’s gunwale! 

Several men yank me back on board. I poise to leap when the dory appears once 

more. 

Talledo has pulled my sheath knife loose but had no time to use it. Both hands of 

both men are required to fend the dory away from the Nanok’s side. All that is 

transpiring is swifter than my thoughts. 

I see the dory rising again. Talledo is frantically trying to fend away, using his 

bare left hand and the knife in his right. Connors is just as busy. I have no time to 

think or act. Dory and men fly upward on a wave that raises their gunwale to the 

level of the Nanok’s! In his excitement as he comes upward, Talledo fends off by 

poking me in the chest several times with the knife! It’s blade tip pierces my life 

jacket but does not reach my flesh. The situation, despite it’s serious and 

dangerous nature, has a Keystone Kops comedy aspect to it. 

Down goes the dory! 

Maggie must have realized his plan was doomed to failure. He shouts for us to 

bring Talledo and Connors back on board. When the dory rises and Talledo is 

abreast of me, I lunge partly over the gunwale and grasp the Chief in a tight bear 

hug. Someone else has gotten hold of Connors. Both men are pulled on board 

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and the dory then capsizes. It is of wood and does not sink. As the sea brings her 

back to gunwale height, she too is pulled on board. 

The Nanok rolls heavily to port. A great wave spills over the gunwale and I fall 

beneath the water’s weight. My right leg catches in something as I fall. 

Momentum of the wave carries me further inboard. My leg feels as if it has been 

wrung from it’s hip socket! Much confusion prevails. Several others have been 

knocked down by waves. Men are strewn across the deck and smash against the 

pilot house and boom cradle. I am helped to stand upright. My leg is numb and I 

can’t do it alone. Great waves strike again and again. The deck pitches and 

heaves crazily. Most men retreat to safe shelter in the fo’c’s’le. 

The engine is restarted and the Nanok’s bow is pointed directly at the scow 

several hundred yards away. We know the skipper too well to assume he will 

abandon the recovery effort. Another attempt will be made to board the scow. 

Maggie decided to approach the scow head-on. When we are close enough, he 

will reverse engine and three men will leap from the bow onto the scow. A light 

heaving line will be tossed to them. The leading end of the hawser will be 

attached to the trailing end of the heaving line. The three men then on the scow 

will pull it on board and secure hawser to the scow’s bridle chain. It must all be 

done quickly for if we drift too far apart, too much heavy hawser will be payed out 

into the sea. Men on the scow may not have strength enough to cope with the 

weight. 

Cookie Clark volunteers to take my place for I can barely walk. And if I were able, 

I would no longer volunteer for such madness. 

We are close together. Engine is reversed. Scow rises on a wave as the Nanok 

descends on another. Nanok’s bow smashes down upon a front corner of the 

scow. There is a loud cracking sound. A great hole is stove into the Nanok's bow. 

Sea water rushes in. 

Connors and Clark leap, closely followed by Talledo. The first two men tumble 

across the scow’s wet deck. Talledo, in mid-air, grasps the arch of a davit on the 

scow to break his fall. Grasping the davit causes him to swing like a pendulum 

and he loses his grip. He falls flat on his back and slides across the steel deck. I 

fear his back has been broken, but no! Old Grisly clambers back to his feet! Ship 

and scow are [again] drifting apart. We close on her once more. Bos’n Robbins 

tosses the heaving line on board the scow. Engine is stopped. 

It grows dark quickly now, making it difficult to see clearly. Wind rises ever higher 

and shrieks through the rigging. Men on board the scow have pulled the entire 

heaving line on board and have reached the hawser’s leading end. 

My eyes do not believe what they see! Wind tears away Talledo’s sou’wester hat. 

It shreds his foul weather jacket, then his rubber bib trousers tear off and fly 

91

away! Clark and Connors fare the same. In semi-darkness, scow and ship drift 

apart. The scow can no longer be seen. Wind-carried rain makes it impossible to 

even look in the direction of the scow’s last known location. Maggie is reluctant to 

start engine. There is no way for him to know whether or not the scow has been 

secured to the hawser. The hawser feeds downward into the sea from the 

Nanok's stern. It could become entangled in the propeller once again. Maggie 

chances the use of a powerful searchlight but it is inadequate to penetrate both 

rain and darkness. We watch the hawser and after an eternity it’s limp form 

springs to life and stretches taut! The scow is secured! 

Half of our prayers have been answered. We still don’t know the fate of the three 

men on the scow. We can only hope the cabin latch of the motor-sailor on the 

scow is unlocked. If not, the men will have to break out a pane of the shutter 

glass to gain entry into the tiny cabin for refuge. If this should be necessary, 

water would spill into the cabin and the men could freeze to death, providing they 

have not already been swept overboard. 

Radioman Carroll Jenner refuses to leave the stern of the Nanok. He watches 

the hawser throughout the night. As long as it remains taut, he knows the scow is 

still attached. 

Maggie is concerned that either the Nanok or the scow could strike an iceberg for 

the night is completely black. He cannot chance even an occasional searchlight 

beam. One never knows if an enemy war vessel or submarine may be in the 

vicinity. A light would attract them. True, it might not be possible for the enemy to 

engage us during the night, but [it] could follow until the winds die and daylight 

comes. We proceed forward and hope for the best. 

My leg aches so I lay below. I have no strength to remove my remaining wet 

clothing. As do others, I wrap into a blanket and drop into my sack. Overtiredness 

keeps some awake. The fo’c’s’le reverberates with noise from the 

onslaught of smashing waves. Nanok lurches and rolls crazily. At one point we 

roll suddenly to such a degree, I am rolled bodily out of my sack. I land upon the 

dining table’s seat below and alongside my bunk. It is a day and night that will not 

easily be forgotten. From off somewhere I hear Tiny reading his Bible aloud and 

as swiftly as possible. 

September 8, Tuesday; At sea. 

Sometime during the night Morpheus arrived and I fell asleep. During sleep, 

weather has abated. All is silent in the fo’c’s’le. Judging by gentle motion of the 

Nanok the sea is quite calm. As quickly as possible I change into dry clothes. My 

naked body resembles a prune. Climbing topside I find the sun so bright it hurts 

the eyes. Several of the crew are in the ship’s stern. Behind us rides the scow as 

92

pretty as a kite. Her rust-resistant orange color flashes reflections from the sun. 

Wind is but a gentle breath. About a mile ahead is the entrance to a fjord 

surrounded by the usual giant, snow-capped peaks of multi-colored rock. Tiny 

the Detestable stands outside the fo’c’s’le reading his Bible half-aloud. Surface of 

the sea has a slight ground swell and nothing more. A thin layer of vapor-like fog 

clings to the water. Captain Maggie stills the engine and many men pull at the 

hawser. Slowly, slowly comes the scow like a played-out whale. No one 

comments on the fact that there is no sign of life on board her. As she is brought 

close up, we are able to see completely through the tiny, glass-sided cabin of the 

motor sailor on the scow’s deck. All eyes turn toward the skipper. His eyes are 

sleepless, red and anxious. Long and repeated blasts of the Nanok's whistle 

shatters the silence and their echoes return from shore. 

Ho!! 

The motor sailer’s pilot cabin's hatch opens! Cookie Clark tumbles out, stifflegged. 

He puts a fist into each armpit, flaps his elbows up and down as wings. 

He loudly crows "cock-a-doodle-doo" like a rooster! Smiles break out on board 

the Nanok. Skipper pretends anger and disgust. Even though he cusses Clark’s 

nonsense, he is obviously relieved of great tension and concern. 

After Clark comes Talledo and Connors. All are safe! It is a great morning. Scow 

is pulled alongside and the three men come on board. They consume great 

mounds of bacon and eggs and several pitchers of hot coffee. The three had 

huddled in a corner of the motor-sailer’s pilot house for warmth. Their only 

complaint was that cigarettes and matches had gotten wet. Maggie orders them 

to their sacks to sleep the clock around. 

The day has a holiday spirit without festivity. There is much backslapping and 

congratulations. From this day on, no one will doubt the skipper’s superior 

courage and determination. Many doubt his judgment. 

Tiny falls asleep sitting up in a corner of the galley’s deck. The Bible falls from his 

chubby fingers. I stuff it into his parka and throw a blanket over him. Perhaps his 

share of effort has been most important of all. 

We pull near shore and a small spit of beach. Chips Delaney, the skipper, 

Talledo and McClay survey the hole in Nanok’s port bow. It proves to be more 

like a giant starburst fracture. Delaney feels he can mend the injury with a giant 

sheet of lead and other materials. With minimum assistance he does so. The 

Nanok is once again water tight. A truly masterful accomplishment. 

September 9,Wednesday; At sea. 

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Sea fairly calm. Scow behaving beautifully, gliding through a field of icebergs as 

large as battleships. 

Fireman John Petrenko complains he should have joined the army. The horrible 

stench of rotted fish cargo causes John to retch. Fish odor affords Cookie Clark a 

semi-vacation. Many feel as Petrenko does. It is impossible to eat when 

nauseated. Our lack of appetite amuses Clark until he too becomes nauseous. 

Tiny is able to eat voraciously. 

September 10, Thursday; BE 2, Comanche Bay, Pikiutdleq. 

Plowing through icebergs and guided by inaccurate handmade charts, we arrive 

at Pikiutdleq in the afternoon with scow in tow. 

This bay is nature’s wind tunnel. Constant, frigid wind blows from the top of a 

glacier that is bordered on both sides by snow-capped rocky mountains. The 

glacier’s valley funnels the frosty wind down into and across the bay and chases 

itself out onto the sea. 

Entering the bay’s mouth from a calm ocean, the Nanok is struck head on by 

gale force winds that rarely rest. We are advised by Morse code blinker light to 

anchor in mid-bay rather than attempt to tie up near shore. Thus the wind should 

be unable to blow us aground. The great depth of the bay is also a problem. We 

race into the bay and unleash the starboard anchor while still underway at 

substantial speed. As the hook plummets down into the depths, the Nanok’s 

course veers sharply to port. After some distance of travel, the port anchor is 

dropped simultaneously with the shutting down of the engine. 

After both anchors touch bottom, adjustments are made so that the Nanok is 

tethered by both anchors, far apart and far forward of the Nanok’s prow, like a 

kite fastened to two kite strings. 

When there is somewhat of a let up in the wind, I row Dilly and Maggie ashore in 

a dory. The pitiful-looking settlement lies at the base of the skyscraping glacier, 

but out of it’s path of travel. It consists of one rather large clapboard building and 

several small outhouse-looking sheds. I count a population of six men and five 

sled dogs. The place is a weather observation base. There is scientific research 

going on as well, but we are advised not to inquire about details. 

The commander is an army captain named Taylor. Supposedly, there are 

additional personnel stationed here, but are away on some sort of Ice Cap duty. 

We are anxious to rid the Nanok of it’s cargo of fast ripening, frozen fish. 

94

A closer look at this god-forsaken settlement is depressing. Much of the base 

personnel’s food-stuff is buried deep in a horizontal tunnel dug into the glacier. It 

is a natural freezer. The base’s larger building and living quarters is one large 

room filled with much radio parts and weather study equipment. Included is the 

personnel’s personal belongings and stacked sleeping bunks. The place is a 

combination work shop and living quarters. The men take turns cooking and 

cleaning. After seeing this hell-hole up close, my heart goes out to the men who 

somehow manage to appear cheerful and in good spirits. The place makes the 

Nanok appear as a floating palace. I appreciate my lot much more. 

September 11, Friday; Comanche Bay. 

We offload the dog food from the Nanok to the scow and from the scow to shore. 

I run the winch but cannot escape the stench. Jonesy rows the old man ashore 

and does not return. I should have thought of that escape. 

It begins to rain heavily. I swear each raindrop is the size of a golf ball and colder 

than billy-hell. Despite my parka hood, some of the stuff strikes my face, rolls 

down my neck, across my shoulders, down the center of my back and through 

the crack of my ass! 

After knocking off at 1400, some of us go ashore. Elmer and I enjoy a hot cup of 

cocoa provided by a friendly army sergeant. I never cared for cocoa, but now it 

tastes as if it were delivered from heaven. 

As the time passes, tempers of crew members are growing ever thinner. Most 

anger easily and at the slightest provocation. Much is caused by the loneliness 

Greenland's bleak and barren rocks and glaciers impart. Too, not knowing when, 

if ever, we will return stateside and see our loved ones is a strong factor. Heavy 

rain turns the world into a caldron of dismal sadness and-discomfort. 

Homesickness is overabundant. Dreariness is Greenland and Greenland is 

dreariness. It is the world at end, the chill of ages, a tombstone for lost ships and 

men. It is a blanket of ice smoothed by unbelievable winds. The largest island on 

earth lying mostly inside the Arctic Circle. Approximately 840,000 square miles 

covered by some 710,000 square miles of ice. Oddly enough, the short summer 

in it’s south has a mean temperature of 48 degrees Fahrenheit. To me, the 

island’s only beauty is it’s primitive vastness, it’s solar phenomena and it’s 

simple, unspoiled natives, "Greenlanders" if you will. We have seen so little of 

them thus far. 

New rumor: we will return stateside in a month or so... Aaaaaah, hope! 

95

September 12, Saturday; Comanche Bay. 

Towed scow ashore and ebb of tide leaves her high and dry. We offload much 

miscellaneous cargo from Nanok’s hold and grow tired to the point of despair. 

Our last job is the meanest. We must haul two very large motorized sleds. They 

are not only very long, but bulky and heavy as well. No one on board or ashore 

has ever seen one before. Something new for the Arctic and Antarctic. After 

getting them ashore, we must carry them up a steep hill of snow and rock. My 

legs sink in snow halfway to the knees and twist and slide on small sections of 

ice. It is a travel of several inches at a time. 

An army lieutenant named Max H. Demorest follows our movements as though 

the sleds were priceless. I ask his interest and learn that he travels the Ice Cap 

often on skis or by dog sled. To him the motor sleds are a Godsend. He says 

there have never been any motorized sleds in Greenland before. As matter of 

fact, these are the only ones he has ever heard of. A new invention? 

Note: The British explorer Robert F. Scott attempted to use motorized sledges in 

Antarctica during his 1910-1911 trek to the South Pole. The American journalist 

Walter Wellman tested motor sledges for use at his airship base in Svalbard as 

early as the spring of 1906—Editor. 

We tell the lieutenant to treat the sleds well but under no circumstances return 

them to the Nanok. We have no desire to see the monsters again. Demorest 

laughs good-naturedly. He is a very likeable guy, tall, lean and bears a striking 

resemblance to John Carradine of the movies. 

Army captain Taylor rewards our efforts with two double cases of canned beer. 

Maggie donates a large bottle of dry gin. Clark prepares a steak dinner for all. 

The day has some rewards. Guns Owens mixes his slug of gin into his beer. His 

normally pale blue eyes turn almost white after he downs the mixture. 

September 13, Sunday; Comanche Bay. 

A deluge of snow falls as we turn-to this a.m. Snowflakes the size of large maple 

leafs are coming down. I catch one after the other in my cold, gloved hand and 

study their beauty and structure as quickly as I can before they disintegrate and 

become water. There must be some designer high in the sky who specializes in 

filigree design. 

Jonesy rows Maggie ashore in a dory and returns alone. Then he and I transport 

sixteen double cases of beer ashore, property of Captain Taylor. We then place a 

small dory inside a larger one, tow both ashore with our outboard motor boat. We 

96

fill the inner dory with bucketfuls of glacier-falls water and pump it on board the 

Nanok. 

Comer and I bum a cup of tea and a can of beer each, then haul two Eskimo 

huskies back to the ship for delivery somewhere nearby. Snow becomes freezing 

rain. At midnight I stand watch atop the gun deck alongside the three inch twenty 

three cannon. I experience an overwhelming wave of melancholia. I am alone in 

onyx darkness. Aurora borealis, sensing my mood, presents a special 

performance for me. Mountainous globules of multi-colored paint pours down 

from the heavens in a straight line from horizon to horizon. Colors are 

exceptionally brilliant this night. They drip and sag as liquid pouring down an 

invisible pane of glass across the sky above me. The colors appear to be 

reachable by hand. Icebergs and sea reflect the colors above. It is a wondrous 

sight! Patterns and tones are ever-changing. Colors fade and are replaced by 

other phenomena I call "slow lightning." In the black sky, "slow lightning" does 

indeed resemble lightning in slow motion. It constantly changes direction at 

varied slow speeds. It hovers many seconds at a time, suspended in still, chill air. 

I have never heard it described before. 

After enjoying the display for quite some time, I feel reconditioned enough to 

tolerate the presence of others. Perhaps too, others may once again bear my 

countenance. 

As if on cue, Cookie Clark joins me to view the overhead panorama. His 

presence and conversation is most welcome. We talk about our favorite subject, 

food. Not our every day diet, but choice unavailable items such as oranges, 

barrel-cured dill pickles, corned beef on rye, filet mignon, green onions, and draft 

beer to name a few. Such shared inner thoughts bring us together in close 

friendship. 

My watch ends and I hit the sack. 

September 14, Monday; BE 1, Optimist, Angmagssalik. 

Greenland keeps me in a constant chill here, high up on the east coast. I 

awakened during the night with a numbed face that has lain in contact with the 

frosty cold outer skin of the Nanok. The ship’s skin is one side of my shelf-like 

bunk. 

Ice has formed on the waters for I can hear it crack and crumble beneath the 

Nanok’s bow as we leave Comanche Bay at 0200. I lay on my back, trying vainly 

to return to slumberland. Noise of cracking ice is amplified in our undersized 

forecastle quarters. A large, wooden, overhead beam running from the port to 

starboard side of the ship splinters under severe pressure. We must have struck 

97

a large iceberg. There is a sharp, whip-cracking sound as the beam splits. It is as 

if a rifle has been fired. I am startled and leap from my bunk. 

Another fractured bone for old dame Nanok. She is impervious to pain and 

continues along her waddling way. 

As days grow ever colder and icecakes thicken, there will surely be more 

fractures and leaking seams. It is fortunate the old girl has a hard head. The 

scow is neatly in tow as we near the entrance of Kong Oscar’s Havn (King 

Oscar’s Harbor). There is a single, high mountain peak on the south shore near 

the harbor’s entrance. The peak is quite pointed, somewhat like a pyramid. A 

small, dense cloud drifts into the peak and circles around it, slowly at first, then 

faster and faster. Finally, ever increasing momentum flings fractured sections of 

the cloud out and away from the peak. Another Greenland phenomenon. 

Just inside the harbor on it’s south side is a small cluster of U.S. Army clapboard 

buildings. Beyond them, a bit further inland lies the small village of 

Angmagssalik. Despite it’s small size, it is possibly the largest on Greenland’s 

east coast. The army buildings house a U.S. weather observation station. 

The village was founded in 1894 and has probably remained unchanged since 

that time. On it’s downward slope toward the harbor, one can see a sprinkling of 

three- or four-room shiplap houses painted red and trimmed with green and viceversa. 

There are also a variety of small, unpainted buildings used mostly for 

storage. All buildings are spread far apart from one another and joined together 

with a web of foot paths. The spread of buildings is for fire safety. There is no fire 

department. There are no roads or vehicles visible. The painted houses are 

occupied by the most socially prominent residents. 

Most natives live in huts. The huts are usually one large room built in crevasses 

between large rocks. The rocks form two or three of the walls. Roofs and balance 

of the structures are made of driftwood, animal skins, chunks of moss, and such. 

Late in the evening we have occasion to change Nanok’s place of anchorage. 

Fairbanks, Jones, Stan, Connors, and I work in semi-darkness. Talledo is in 

charge. Stan takes the opportunity to goad Fairbanks about the length of a shot 

of chain for the second time. I make the mistake of joining the fracas. I seek the 

truth from Talledo. He is in an exceptionally bad mood and has been literally 

shouting orders. I should have gone elsewhere for an answer. Instead of an 

answer to my question. He displays his fierce Indian temper and informs me in 

an irritable, raspy voice that I should have learned long ago that a shot of chain 

measures ninety feet. He then added that if it had been his decision, I never 

would have been made Seaman 1/c. For an instant, anger suppressed good 

judgment and I told him that if it had been my decision, he never would have 

become a Boatswain’s Mate! 

98

The anchorage was secure with the scow tied alongside. I turned to leave the 

gun deck and came face to face with the Chief. He had removed his hat which 

bore the Coast Guard symbol of authority. This act permitted him to challenge 

me physically. He planted his feet wide apart and demanded satisfaction for my 

insult toward him. My feelings were strange, never experienced before. I inform 

Talledo that he too has insulted me, and he was the first to insult. The man was 

more than twice my age. A foot shorter in height and plagued with many 

illnesses, but did not lack for guts. It was not too dark to see his flashing eyes 

and upraised fists. He crouched somewhat and came at me. My first reaction 

was to laugh, but I did not. I had no desire to fight the old man. I did not dislike 

him that much. I tried to say, "I don’t want to fight you, Chief," but the words 

never left my mouth. His overhand right fist missed my retreating chin. So did a 

ridiculously slow left hook. 

I did not raise my fists. "I don’t want to fight you, Chief!" I finally managed to say. 

I could not force myself to strike back. He cocked his arm several more times, 

then dropped it to his side. He turned, picked up his hat from the deck, and 

scrambled down the fo’c’s’le ladder without a word. 

A vision of the Russian/Pole at the Brunswick bar came to mind. I could visualize 

his fiendish, sarcastic smile, and almost hear his laugh. Had he been right? Was 

I an American coward who refuses to fight for lack of guts? The thought was 

disturbing. Wind is gone from my sail, my spirit ebbs. I slink off to bed. 

September 15, Tuesday; Angmagssalik. 

Of the three names that identify this place, Angmagssalik is the most often used, 

so I use it also. None of the crew that witnessed last night’s fiasco choose to 

speak to me about it. I am grateful. 

Weather is fine. I practice typing with Rollston but my heart isn’t in it. I can’t get 

over last night’s altercation. I visit Chief McClay, looking for some understanding, 

I suppose. I told him all about last night’s incident. He listened intently, closed his 

eyes, and nodded his head slowly. 

"You heard about it?" I asked. 

Another nod. 

"Jesus Christ, McClay, what have I done!?" 

He gave me a sympathetic look. I then felt ever more sorry for myself. 

"I really did not want to fight him, Mac." 

99

He softly said, "I know. This might be the best time to tell you this, ’ski. Sit down. 

I sat. 

"Not everyone knows this, ’ski, but Talledo has a severe hearing loss. Whenever 

possible, he reads lips. In darkness he has one hell of a time hearing. Since he 

doesn’t hear well, he doesn’t realize how loud his voice is, how offensive he 

sounds to many of us. As for his sour looks, that is his natural appearance. I’ve 

learned that inside he is one hell of a nice guy. When we first met, I thought him 

to be a loud-mouthed scowling bastard. Later, I learned from his previous 

commander and some of his old crew, a number of his guys actually shed tears 

when he was transferred to the Nanok." 

I felt worse by the minute. 

McClay continued. "Talledo was given a really raw deal that may contribute 

toward his temperament. Just before his retirement date, war was declared and 

all retirements were cancelled until the war’s end. I'm sure he could have 

obtained a medical exception, but he’s not the kind to ask for special 

consideration. So here he is, in poor physical condition, but overloaded with 

dogged determination." 

All McClay's information added to my poor feelings. With hindsight I could now 

understand many of the unpleasant things Talledo had said to anger me. Before I 

left McClay, I had a brand new opinion of Talledo. 

As soon as I knew Talledo to be alone, I went to him. Obviously he was surprised 

to see me. 

"What the hell do you want," he barked. 

Without being asked, I sat down. I looked at the old man and said, "Chief, I don’t 

know how to begin." 

He looked at me even more surprised, and, doubtlessly, confused. I told him in 

detail all that McClay had told me. He sat down, silently staring at his hands on 

his knees. He silently nodded as he spoke. I felt so badly I could not continue. He 

stood up and without looking down at me, he grasped my shoulder with one hand 

and squeezed. It was all I needed to know that he understood. His face remained 

placid, but his voice was very gruff and loud, as usual. 

"’Ski, you’re a good kid. Maybe you don’t know it, but I see how hard you try and 

how good you do your work. You’re gonna be a damn good sailor, not like some 

of the braggart ones. I wondered why you always had a hard nose toward me. 

Now I know. Things should now get better. I’m sorry for last night’s business too, 

100

ut I just couldn’t stand you any longer. Now we both understand each other ... 

right?" he said, holding out his right hand to me. 

"Right!" I smiled, took his hand and we pumped them together. I didn’t want him 

to notice how badly his grip was crushing my hand. He actually gave me a hug 

and I hugged back. I walked on air to my quarters forward. Sleep would come 

easy. All I had left to do was to sign some papers for Elmer to cancel Lucille’s 

allotment and begin her new one at an increase to sixty dollars per month. 

September 16, Wednesday; Angmagssalik. 

Talledo shouts instructions at me, but there is a softer look in his eyes. He shows 

me several tricks of seamanship and how to tie a monkey-fist knot. He winks at 

me as I duplicate the feat. He even smiles, one of his rare ones. I suspect I may 

have a new friend. I know I have become one. He has motivated me. I practice, 

and in surprisingly short time learn to tie a masthead as well as a flemish eye 

knot. 

Some cargo remains in the scow and we offload it. There are also seventy-five 

double cases of canned beer. We eye the brew mischievously, but we are being 

eyed officially. None of the cases become lost or missing. 

The army weather observation buildings are high on a hill. Personnel consists of 

some twenty weather men and a few army maintenance men. Much of the 

remaining cargo, including the beer, goes to them. 

The large USCG Cutter North Star is at anchor here. We tie to her and visit on 

board. The cutter Northland is here also, as well as the USCG trawlers Aklak and 

Natsek. We exchange visits with them also. The trawler crews are a nice bunch 

of swab-jockeys [and] about as homesick as we are. They don’t cry aloud as we 

of the Nanok relieve them of much of their cash via poker games, craps and 

acey-deucy. 

Word comes that the U.S. Aircraft Carrier Wasp has been torpedoed and sunk in 

the Battle of Guadalcanal . 

September 17, Thursday; Angmagssalik. 

During the night we are forced to move away from the North Star as we were 

threatened by large icebergs drifting into us. The deck crew on watch found it 

possible to fend off smaller bergs by pushing them aside with pike poles and boat 

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hooks. However, a large berg can become wedged between both vessels and 

create an exasperating problem. 

The twenty-some-foot motor sailor is removed from it’s cradle on the scow by 

using the boom of a large freighter. The vessel is to remain in this area in 

custody of Mister Hollingsworth. The scow remains tied to the Nanok for the time 

being. It seems as though we have towed the blasted thing half way around the 

world and for at least eighteen years. Actually we’ve had her in tow (on and off) 

since September 2, only sixteen days. 

We leave Angmagssalik in the a.m. and move to a very small army base and 

Eskimo village called Simiutaq, part two of BE 1. It is here we kiss the scow 

goodbye (forever, we hope), and scoot back to Angmagssalik. There is still a 

long day ahead so we sit in dorys and slap paint on Nanok’s hips. Colliding ice 

cakes and small bergs have scraped off most of the Nanok’s makeup. Hands are 

so cold it is difficult to release the paint brush. 

I wonder how long cold paint will adhere? I always thought one should not paint 

in less than 65 or 70 degrees. [In any case], our efforts seem worthwhile. The 

lady was near naked. Painted, she looks proud, proper and dignified, even with 

the small amount of paint we were able to apply today. 

Seven Eskimo husky dogs are brought on board and lashed with very short lines. 

They are spaced no more than six feet apart, and are tied to the gunwale. The 

short lashings allow them only to lie down or stand close enough to merely touch 

noses together. No sooner are the dogs tied, they begin to cover the deck with 

their droppings! Each beast has generated a mound of excreta half the size of 

the beast itself! [As if] this is not bad enough, they roll and slide in it! The odor is 

terrible! Robbins walks by and as usual retches. I have renamed him "Retching 

Robin." Naturally I do not tell him this. Robbie spits forth unrepeatable words at 

the animals. 

In return, the dogs wag their tales affectionately. Robby does not share their 

happiness. 

Fairbanks is particularly angry about the situation. He has had to scrub hardened 

animal droppings from the deck before. He creeps up to one of the animals that 

has it’s stern section exposed and is about to reward the dog for it’s rotten 

housekeeping habits. Fairbanks lets fly an army-booted foot at the dog’s 

transom. At that very moment the dog has heard it’s stalker and wheels about. 

Result, the shoe does not land exactly on target. The poor animal is nearly 

castrated, and an army shoe is covered with dog droppings. Fairbanks has heard 

Robbie’s special cuss words and repeats them loudly at several members of the 

crew who are witnessing his demise with much laughter. 

102

Buffalo Bill Hollingsworth comes on board and we have a gab fest. He shows us 

many pictures of his family and thereby manages to make Brill, Petrenko, Clark, 

Jonesy, and Dexter homesick. Bill smooths things with a donation of two cartons 

of candy bars. Nice guy. 

Clark crawls into his sack and with tear-filled eyes studies his pin-up picture of 

movie actress Paulette Goddard. She is mounted upside-down on the overhead 

above where he lay. 

September 18, Friday; Angmagssalik. 

Late last p.m. we take on board thirteen more dogs. Talk about howling! All night 

long like a pack of wolves. Their trainer and dog sled driver Johann Johanson 

comes on board with them. The dogs fear Johanson even though he is mild 

looking and less than average size. Whenever he appears on deck, the howling 

ceases as though a switch has been thrown. Despite the fact that howling 

ceases, Johann swats each animal a resounding crack across the snout with a 

heavy club. He says he must retain respect and control and this is the only way 

he knows how to do it. Should there be an Animal Humane Society in Greenland, 

Johanson would be in dire straits and probably sliding about in his own 

excrement. 

The day is a lazy one. Very few chores to do. A small dory pulls alongside. I help 

to unload it and get four cans of beer for the effort. 

Oscar Dillon speculates we will remain in Greenland for about six more weeks at 

the most. He must have a crystal ball or balls. 

The Northstar and Natsek leave. 

Members of the crew autographed my phoney-baloney certificate I received for 

crossing the Arctic Circle for the first time. I had each of them include an address 

they felt might remain more or less permanent and they did so. 

Chief Motor Machinist Mate Nelson McClay tempered the blade of my sheath 

knife. In return, I sew him a nice but small ditty bag he wanted. 

September 19, Saturday; Comanche Bay. 

We take on board two army weather observation sergeants. One is Warren 

Morris who brings along his own Eskimo husky puppy named Rusty. Rust is the 

pup’s color. I don’t learn the other sergeant’s name. 

103

It is said Warren is "going native." He wears an Eskimo jumper and boots and 

has several Eskimo women pregnant. Maggie says that if any serviceman 

impregnates a native woman he must pay the Danish Government the sum of 

five hundred dollars to provide medical attention at the child’s birth and 

thereafter. Some tease Wayne about his fifteen hundred dollar medical bill. He 

just grins and denies all guilt. 

We leave Angmagssalik in the a.m. and arrive at Comanche Bay in early p.m. 

The hook is dropped. The Natsek is at anchor nearby. She has not yet [been] 

blessed to go stateside. 

We borrow Natsek’s clinker-built outboard motorboat. Jones and I use it to haul 

Johann Johanson and his sled dogs ashore. The dogs promptly cover the boat 

bottom with excrement. There is no doubt, they eat less than they excrete. Jones 

says we can go into business if we get the dogs to eat a small amount of cement. 

"They will then crap bricks and we can sell them" he said. 

I said: "Fine, but who is going to mold the stuff from cigar shapes to brick 

shapes?" 

We immediately went out of business. 

What a job getting the animals ashore! When we do, two of them drag me around 

on my stomach! I dare not release the hold on their leashes. They are too 

valuable to lose in the snow or on the glacier. My body receives many bruises. 

Perhaps I can learn to tolerate seeing the dogs beaten by Johanson if they 

continue thus. 

Both army sergeants and Rusty are also hauled ashore. 

It grows very cold. Rain falls and freezes. Ice cakes are being blown out to sea 

by a vicious wind. 

September 20, Sunday; Comanche Bay. 

Ice is melting. Dog droppings are scraped and washed away but stench remains 

imbedded in the wooden deck. Rest of cargo is hauled ashore, including 

Johann’s dog sleds, tarpaulins, food, lumber, wire, etc. 

As often, Maggie worked along with us. He seemed delighted with my 

demonstration of seamanship. So was I until I fouled-up in securing a holding 

hitch around an oil drum. Maggie muttered a few uncomplimentary words about 

my efforts and I’m afraid I mildly sassed him back. My elevation to coxswain had 

104

to have slipped a bit. One does not sass one’s skipper. In truth, I felt as if I were 

sassing myself for being stupid. 

Cookie Clark never ceases to amaze me with his culinary artistry. We had hot 

turkey with stuffing, hot biscuits, cranberries, corn, mashed potatoes with gravy, 

and a slice of pineapple in jello for dinner. In the worst of seas Clark cooks and if 

any swabby that can hold food down makes an appearance at the table, Clark 

will have cooked food for him. Many of the other trawler’s so-called cooks secure 

their respective galleys whenever the anchor is upped. They force their crew to 

shift for themselves. The crew must eat whatever they can find in the cupboard 

or refrigerator. I’ve seen Clark cook in weather so bad the Nanok would 

alternately stand on her tail, then on her head. He has fitted thick, wide, and long 

steel straps that cris-cross his extra large galley cook stove. The straps hold pots 

in place so they cannot slide about. However, Clark has never found a way to 

keep himself from sliding about and ricocheting off bulkheads, cupboards and 

stove. 

It was that way once when Clark not only had the pots anchored to the stove, but 

also a large garbage can onto the deck. He was trying to make stew. He began 

with a giant-sized pot nearly full, and finished with one sixth of the pot full. With 

the heavy roll of the ship, he would slide on stew that had splashed onto the 

deck. Whenever able, he would stir the stew to keep it from burning. 

Occasionally he would vomit into the garbage can. Someone told Abe Brill that 

Clark was not always able to reach the garbage can. And Brill never ate stew 

again. 

September 21, Monday; Comanche Bay. 

Maggie declares a holiday. Thank God! 

It is a day of heavy rain alternating with snow. In afternoon, Oscar Dillon decides 

to give me a nautical IQ test. Most of his stupid questions pertain to sailing 

vessels for crissake! 

"What does fore, main, and mizzen pertain to?" 

"Masts," I reply, and—to myself—I add "dummy!" 

What in hell will I ever have to do with a sailing vessel!? It begins to blow and I 

am thrilled because the ridiculous session comes to an end. 

The anchor begins to drag so we drop a second hook. It somehow wraps it’s 

cable around the other anchor’s cable. Who in hell knows how! But it did! Had to 

have happened as it plummeted toward seabottom. We up both anchors as high 

105

as possible. They are not very large. They are Baldt type and weigh only 500 

pounds each. We hold them suspended just above the water and the Nanok 

drifts gently with the wind. Sully Jones is tied about the waist and lowered over 

the bow to try to unwrap the one turn of the cable. He stands precariously on the 

lower one and tries to push the other which hangs somewhat higher. Waves 

cause them to swing rather slowly, but they bang against Nanok’s bow again and 

again. A ticklish job and trying moments for Jones. Everyone is excited but 

Jones. I never hope to see so fine but dangerous exhibition of seamanship. How 

he avoided being cast into the sea, or losing a few fingers or legs I will never 

know. 

Voila!! Jones is a hero! 

As the anchors swung, he guided and pushed the top one across the lower one, 

almost knocking himself into the sea. He lost his footing but dangled on an 

anchor chain with one hand as the two anchors separate from one another. He 

then managed to grasp the chain with both hands, twist his lower body upwards 

and wrap both legs around an anchor flute. We then wrestled him on board and 

pull both anchors chock-a-block. 

Wind gusts begin to blow beyond one hundred miles per hour. It is of no use to 

drop the hooks again. They would never hold bottom. Skipper decides it is safer 

to ride out the blow throughout the night and we do so. The sudden wind must 

have come from hell! It is as cold as coveralls filled with crushed ice. 


I awaken with a severely sore throat. 

In the a.m. we secure for sea as best we can in high wind and roller-coaster 

waves. As we put about, wind and sea lays the ship on her side. Madam Nanok 

runs as if a rapist pursues her. The moment we reach open seas, the wind runs 

off to harass some other vessel somewhere else. 

I am forever awed by the mountainous glaciers that come to an end at the sea 

and bottomless fjords. I thrill when they fracture and break apart with roars that 

tremble the sea and disturb my ear drums. Every roar heralds the birth of a 

floating iceberg. These giant chunks of emerald and diamond plunge into the sea 

depths and are gone from sight. An eternity later the chunks reappear. They rise 

slowly, majestically, to ride proud and high in the blue-black sea. These 

monstrous giants bob in very slow motion as they begin their voyage southward 

to eternity. They move by will of wind and current. Eventually they are consumed 

by warmer water and brine of the sea. They are beautiful but fearful to those who 

sail their playgrounds. 

106

Enroute to Angmagssalik we receive message that the freighter Alcoa Pilot has 

been blown onto the rocks there, and we are needed to assist pulling her off. 

Before we arrive, she has freed herself. Saves us much hard work. 

In a.m. yesterday, Talledo and Maggie brought back the puppy Rusty as well as 

a totally black Labrador Retriever named Quick. We are to hold Rusty until his 

master Warren Morris returns. Looks like Maggie has adopted Quick. Today both 

animals scatter feces throughout the main deck forecastle and the shower room. 

Thank heaven the dogs can’t crawl down the ladder into the crew quarters. I 

make myself scarce until Fairbanks has cleaned up the mess. 

Arriving at Angmagssalik, we drop a hook in the harbor as usual. Sea is calm, 

only a gentle ground swell. In evening, Mister Dillon and I have a bull session 

about what a Seaman 1/c like myself should know. His questions still pertain 

mostly to sailing vessels. I suspect that he must own one.* 

*Note: This was not a bad suspicion. Reserve officers in the Coast Guard during 

the World War II often earned their commissions on the strength of little more 

than a college degree and/or wealthy connections in yachting circles, either of 

which had little to do with the ability to command two dozen hard-bitten sailors in 

the Arctic. Thomas S. La Farge, captain of the Natsek, for example, became a 

Lieutenant (j.g.) because he was a "yachtsman and lover of ships." —Editor. 


During 4 to 8 a.m. watch I took the opportunity to make coffee for Chief Talledo. 

He looked happy as a grinning coon dog. 

Scrubbed out two dorys with intention of using them as containers for hauling 

fresh water. Only thing on today’s agenda is to dash over to nearby Simiutaq, 

pick up our old scow, and tow her back here to the vessel Alcoa Pilot. Maggie 

watches as I perform a few minor feats of seamanship but makes no comment. 

No matter, just so he watches. Chief Talledo is working close with me. I [now] 

find myself at ease with him. 

Evening comes. Chips Delaney, Clark, and I have a singing session. Staneczak 

lies in his bunk and is reading a book. We sing purposely louder and louder so as 

to aggravate Stan. We cease when we can no longer bear the din ourselves. 

Stan continues to read unperturbed. He has lost himself in a world of novels and 

western magazines. His ability to concentrate despite our raucous singing is 

amazing. I walk over to make sure Stan is alive. He lies on his back, holding the 

open book before his eyes, and he is sound asleep! 

107

All in all a good day. Wonder what Lucille is doing at the moment. I sure miss 

her. Don’t dare to dwell on the thought, as it gets too heavy. 

September 24, Thursday; Angmagssalik. 

Sullivan Jones, Elmer Comer, and the old man plod about the area trying to find 

a new source of fresh water. Ended up getting it from the same place everyone 

does, from a small stream running through the village. For some reason Maggie 

is reluctant to take water from this stream. He must fear pollution from the 

villagers. 

Two-gun Dexter and Balboa stand near shore in rubber juke suits, fending the 

water-container dorys off the rocks while water is being put into them. They stand 

waist deep in snow and slush. Both clown around and float on their backs in the 

buoyant rubber suits. Dexter makes the sound of a ship’s whistle but it is a tenor 

whistle. Balboa sounds as deep as a Mississippi riverboat. Using a small, 

portable gasoline-powered pump, we fill and transport three dorys, twice, to the 

Nanok. 

Heavy winds late in evening. Our three dorys are tied to one another alongside 

the Nanok. The plan is to use them for hauling water again tomorrow. Because of 

the wind, we think it best to lift the dorys back on board. In my haste to separate 

them to hoist them individually, I accidentally cut the bow line of the only one 

actually fastened to the Nanok. Very quickly, Fairbanks tosses me the end of 

another line. Several of the crew manage to pull me and the three dorys back to 

the Nanok. Very fortunate because I would have been blown quickly out to sea 

without motor or oars. There was no other small vessel on board the ship, so the 

Nanok’s anchor would have to be raised before rescue could even begin. In that 

long lapse of time, the choppy seas would have capsized all three dorys. I am 

indebted to Fairbanks. 

As I and the three dorys are being pulled back to the ship, I lose my balance and 

tumble half out of the dory I am in. A very close call, and a very stupid piece of 

seamanship. Lucky in a way because neither Talledo, Maggie, nor Dillon was 

around to witness my faux pas. 

September 25, Friday; Angmagssalik. 

I chip and scrape away flaking paint from the poop deck and make up a new four 

inch mooring line by splicing a large loop in one end and back splicing the other 

so it cannot unravel. 

108

Wind blowing like the devil all day. Freighter Alcoa Pilot runs in and out of harbor 

three times. She is finding it difficult to get into proper position to drop a hook. 

Feeling fine but very tired. Nanok will rock me to sleep. 

September 26, Saturday; Angmagssalik. 

Did some red-leading. 

Stan, skipper, Jones and Dreams go ashore to get fresh water from a waterfall 

Maggie and I located earlier in the day. Jones and Connors let the water laden 

dorys to go aground and Maggie popped his cork in anger. He threatened to 

leave them "freezing your asses off throughout dinner." Happily, he changed his 

mind. Between boatloads of water, Jonesy, the curious one, clambers about and 

locates two small ponds that feed the water fall. 

September 27, Sunday; At sea. 

Up anchor and leave Angmagssalik with another army sergeant and a welding 

outfit for Captain Taylor. As soon as we enter Comanche Bay, we are struck by a 

hurricane-type beast of a wind. At the same time, giant waves leap over the bow 

and smash me to my knees. I had anticipated Comanche Bay’s behavior and had 

tied myself to the three-inch gun before our entrance. I did not want to take the 

chance of being washed overboard. Talledo had urged me to carry a fifteen foot 

length of twenty-one thread line at all times in the pocket of my ‘Mae West’ life 

jacket; one hell of a good habit I have learned. 

The Nanok did an about face and beat it back out to sea. Hell waited there for us 

also. I have no idea where they came from, but we were greeted by what 

seemed like a million icebergs! Boy! What a job zig-zagging through them to 

open water! The instant we are free, the wind disappeared. Just like that! 

Very late in the evening’s calm, the old man had Guns Owens fire the portside K 

gun just for the hell of it, to see if it would have any effect on the icebergs nearby. 

Most of the crew were either resting or sleeping in their sacks and did not know 

the tremendous blast was a practice shot. A big bunch of wild-eyed sailors 

suddenly hit the topside deck in long-john underwear with Mae West jackets 

tucked underarm. No one thinks the exercise is funny except Maggie (as usual) 

and dumb-ass Guns. 

109

Fracto-nimbus clouds hang from the sky. Their very dark, fractured strands reach 

down toward the Nanok. Heavy rains are on the way! Everyone tries to duck 

inside the fo’c’s’le hatch at the same time! 

September 28, Monday; Angmagssalik. 

Voila! 

Banshees are asleep as we tiptoe into the harbor after spending the night 

outside, amongst the bergs. The hook is dropped and the sergeant and welding 

outfit are ferried ashore. In return, five soldiers [come on board], including 

Warren Morris, dog Rusty’s master. We leave the hell hole immediately for 

Angmagssalik through the field of icebergs. 

The wind has found us! Nanok keeps nodding like a parrot atop monumental 

waves. Clark performs his high-seas magic but there are very few takers. Clark 

bristles in anger as Petrenko tells him the stew came out of the head. Clark 

would never do such an awful thing, I am sure. I think. 

The hook is dropped in Ang. Harbor. It is too rough to ferry our passengers 

ashore so they are to stay the night. They sleep on galley benches and in empty 

sacks of men on watch. 

Despite the rough sea, Bos’n Robbins practices blinker light and semaphore with 

me. Lord knows I need the practice. 


Not much work on agenda. Rain and heavy snow all day. The passengers are 

ferried ashore. We fetch some old scow from the Alcoa Pilot and tow her to shore 

also. I practice more blinker light with Robbie. 

Oscar the Dilly raises my ire. Still insists I memorize various parts of sailing 

vessels! What in hell is he thinking of!? Are we at war with H.M.S. Bounty? When 

will we graduate to the Merrimac and the Monitor?! What in heaven’s name do I 

care about a sprit or spanker!? I wonder if the army has to learn about muzzleloaders, 

Gatling guns, and the curing of buffalo hides? 

Maggie blesses me with a can of beer and some potato chips. I look at him and 

wonder if he knows that an oar has a tip, blade, loom, leather and a handle and 

has committed this extremely valuable information to memory. 

110

Sergeant Warren Morris left his dog Rusty on board and promised to pick the 

beastie up as soon as possible. He is anxious to get ashore to see if his kayak 

has been built as his Eskimo friend had promised it would be. This guy would like 

to become an Eskimo, I’m thinkin.’ In gratitude for letting him stay on board, dog 

Rusty has gifted us with a variety of small volcanoes across the shower room 

deck. I swore never to scoop poop again and I will not. Believe it or not, the 

super-sensitive Robbins does the job to rid the place of the odor, and to be able 

to cease retching. 

Afterthought, where in tarnation did Maggie get fresh potato chips hereabouts? 

There isn't even a PX in Angmagssalik. 

I ask Maggie again about my coxswain’s rating and he again says: "we’ll see 

what we can do." 


Had 4 to 8 watch. 

We were supposed to tow a small scow to a nearby village but the winds are too 

heavy. The Nanok tugs at her anchor chain much like an angry dog. Moral 

worsens. Men grow angry at slightest provocation. Petrenko is furious with 

Delaney who beat him out of several packs of cigarettes in a card game last 

night. Pete is one hell of a lousy loser. 

Compared to Pete, Delaney is much shorter and very slender. Pete is the 

rawboned giant whose teeth are almost always bared. Delaney is as feisty as a 

bantam rooster. Face to chest, he tells Pete to look into a mirror and scare 

himself. 

Pete says Delaney is a termite, not a carpenter. 

Many other things gnaw at morale. Small luxuries are growing ever more difficult 

to come by. The smell of a chocolate bar is a treat in itself. Chips finishes up his 

turn as mess punk and Elmer Comer gets his turn. Fairbanks was to take over 

but he somehow managed to avoid the chore. 

USCG Cutter Comanche was to escort two vessels into the harbor today, but 

there is no sign of her. 

Did some typing and splicing. Thinking too much about not getting promoted and 

manage to anger myself. I think of Dillon’s dumb questions and say aloud to no 

one: "how am I ever going to learn when and how to hoist the topgallant sails or 

splice a new mizzen mast?" 

111

October 1942 

Ice bergs and thick cake ice fields stretch to the horizon. Nanok has a narrow 

escape. As we push aside a very large berg, it decides it does not want to be 

pushed aside. Pressure from the starboard side of the Nanok’s bow causes the 

berg to roll over onto it’s back. After a great amount of pushing, the berg decides 

to turn right side up, then down onto the Nanok’s bow. The berg’s weight pushes 

the bow deep under water. 

October 1, Thursday; Angmagssalik. 

Homesickness prevails. Most show it at least in little ways, but no one speaks of 

it aloud. All I had to say was: "Gee I wish Lucille were here," and a couple of 

giant tears roll down Robbie’s cheeks. I thought homesickness was only a female 

weakness. 

Elmer says I have a loss of memory because I was struck in the head with a 

blivet which is supposed to be two pounds of shit in a one pound sack. Mr. Dillon 

chimes in to teach me things beyond the call of duty. I am taught that a lounge 

lizard is a sailor who has teeth up his rectum and goes around biting the buttons 

off sofa seats. I doubt I could ever learn to be a coxswain without his help. 

October 2, Friday; Angmagssalik. 

Sullivan Jones and I have the 4 to 8 watch. We move to and anchor at a new 

position in the harbor. After offloading a few things, we head for the open sea. 

From there we escort the civilian freighter Hilton and the USCG trawler Aklak into 

anchor area. Aklak has much mail for the Nanok. Hot dog! I receive 17 letters! 

Elmer Comer whose responsibility it is, manages to purchase a large supply of 

pogey bait for the crew. I receive eight chocolate bars. Talledo gives each of us 

two cans of beer. I trade mine for Petrenko’s chocolate. Playing black jack and 

acey deucy I win a carton of Lucky Strike cigs from Pete. As usual he bares and 

grinds his teeth. 

Not much heavy work to do so Dillon, Clark, Sully Jones, and I have a bull 

session. I try my damndest to avoid discussing sailing vessels. Most of the crew 

go ashore to see a movie. Abe Brill makes a rare visit to the forecastle. His skin 

has become powder white. He will never become accustomed to sailing. I think 

he may die before we see Boston again. He is losing much weight. Nick Vacar 

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and his boss McClay visit forward quarters too. Must be old home week. 

Conversations are mostly about the States and home, families, etc. All voices 

have a tint of loneliness. 

October 3, Saturday; Angmagssalik. 

I begin to fashion three manila rope fenders but Robbins and Dillon ask for my 

assistance. We onload twenty drums of oil and a few stores from the Alcoa Pilot 

via the Aklak. I wonder where Talledo is at and why he is not in charge. In 

evening Dilly begins to teach me basic astronomy. I don't enjoy it but I study. 

Maggie says it will now be the responsibility of the Nanok to advise headquarters 

and area vessels of ice conditions and when ships are to head southward. All will 

depend on location and density of ice fields and bergs. Conditions grow worse 

daily. 

Eskimo children enjoy following Oscar Dillon around. Oscar’s complexion being 

similar to that of the Eskimos, plus his round and plump face, leads the kids to 

believe he is one of their kind. While Oscar is annoyed at the ever-present 

children, the crew is secretly amused. 

As during a number of other occasions, I stand wheel watch with only Oscar 

doing the 4 to 8 with me. The pilot house interior is blacked-out except for the tiny 

white light illuminating the forward-most area of the compass card. The ship’s 

diesel engine below our deck throbs loudly. Deck beneath our feet pulsates in 

tempo with the engine. Oscar begins humming, quietly at the beginning. The left 

side of his back is turned toward me. I am sure he is unaware that I hear him. He 

hums but one note. It grows louder and louder. The pulsating deck breaks 

Oscar’s hum into a staccato. I find the sound to be rather pleasant as I steer the 

ship with the aid of the tiny compass light. The sound lulls me and I begin to 

dose. Suddenly I lose my balance and nearly fall. I come awake with a start. The 

hair on the back of my neck bristles. I am 15 degrees off course!! I have to nurse 

the Nanok back onto course without Dillon becoming aware. If he was to learn 

what I had done, it would doubtlessly set my advancement back a knot or two. 

He would never believe his hum lullaby contributed toward my behavior. Luckily, 

in near total darkness, he was unable to see or feel the correcting of Nanok’s 

course. 

Back on course again, I wished Oscar would shut up. Mental telepathy ... he 

shuts up! Suddenly it is much too quiet in the pilot house. I begin to doze. 

October 4, Sunday; Angmagssalik. 

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On-loaded more drums of oil and two oil-burning heating stoves. Robbins 

assumes deck leadership. Talledo failed to appear. Robbie was in his own 

private glory world. Robbins once had the rating of "Surfman," a petty officer that 

excels in the operation and maintenance of small boats, particularly surfboats 

used mostly for coastal rescue work. He had been located at a surf station on the 

Atlantic Coast in the Boston area. His main duty was to rescue small vessels and 

crews in distress for more than fifteen years. 

About the same time that World War II came along, the Coast Guard abolished 

all Surfman ratings and re-identified them as Boatswain’s Mates. Robbie knew 

Surfman duties well, but was not skilled in the functions and duties of large 

vessels for he had never served on board any. Maggie never lets Robbie forget 

his shortcomings. Robbins is never treated as-a Boatswain’s Mate 1/c on the 

Nanok, but rather as another deck force crew member. (But then the captain 

considered all ratings to be Nonsense and said so a number of times. He 

considered ratings to be only pay level differences, nothing more. I wondered in 

what category he placed himself. 

Robbins was always over-anxious to prove he was a capable Boatswain. In 

doing so, many secretly laughed at his efforts. I feel very sorry for him and his 

circumstance. He is one of my best buddies. Despite our friendship, he and I tie 

into it a bit on occasion. In his zeal he sometimes snarls at me without good 

reason. Perhaps because I rarely snarl back. Today, he and Clark get into it. 

Who really knows why. Perhaps just to let off steam. 

Some of the guys get into discussing stag and smoker parties. This is not good 

for lonely men. It makes a guy... 

October 5, Monday; Angmagssalik. 

Quarters on board the Nanok are almost as crowded as that of a submarine. Our 

close, constant proximity to one another is irritating at best. Time and boredom is 

no helpmate either, it wears the skin off raw tempers. 

Clark terminates an argument at the dining table by smashing a giant chunk of 

raw meat on the greatboard between the arguers. Snarling ceases as Clark 

shouts, "fight like dogs, eat like dogs!" 

Up anchor, move to new location closer to shore and drop hook. It is already time 

to obtain a supply of fresh water. Skipper decides it should be gotten from the 

waterfall nearby. Waterfalls are easy to locate. Just look for a giant icicle that 

begins at the top of an escarpment and ends down in the fjord. Chances are the 

icicle contains a core of down-falling water. 

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We climb perhaps fifty feet up the face of the cliff alongside the icicle. This is 

about as far up as is safe to climb the sometimes loose, rocky face of the 

escarpment. We chop a large, horizontal wedge out of the icicle with a fire axe. 

As we near the core, there is indeed a waterfall core enclosed. A large, clean, 

garbage can is inserted into the icicle just far enough to catch the edge of the 

swiftly falling water. 

Welded to the side of the can, near it’s bottom, is a pipe-nipple outlet, threaded to 

accept the threaded fitting at the leading end of a long fire hose. The fitting is 

fastened to the nipple and the hose is led down the escarpment's side and into 

the dory. As water fills the garbage can, a pressure is developed and forces 

water into the hose and swiftly down into the dory. It is an arduous task because 

it requires many dory fills to fill the Nanok’s tanks. Our usual compensation for 

hauling fresh water is an enjoyable shower and laundry. I never dreamt fresh 

water could become a luxury. 

Today my job is to stand amongst the shore rocks and fend the dorys off of them. 

I wear a hooded, coverall design rubber juke suit. A small, clean dory has been 

set inside a larger dory. In tow, this arrangement, supposedly, will prevent the 

occasional splash of sea water from entering the inner, fresh water dory. It is 

similar to placing a small cup inside of a large bowl. The larger container will 

catch the salt water, not the inner container. 

I hold the hose-end inside the small dory and soon fill it. Chips, Connors, Talledo, 

and I haul the first load to the Nanok at anchor. Dexter chooses to remain ashore 

and wait for our return. Part way to the Nanok, our tow begins to yaw. The outer 

dory takes on much sea water and finally submerges. All is lost. Since both dorys 

are of wood, they still float. At the Nanok, we hoist both on board, empty them, 

insert the smaller into the larger and return to the waterfall. 

After Dexter filled the small dory, I straddle the narrow stern of the outer dory, still 

in my juke suit. With an oar I am to steer and keep the boats from yawing. 

Talledo, Chips, Connors, and Dexter are in the outboard motor boat, towing me 

and the dorys some distance behind them. It grows dark quickly now. Perhaps 

Talledo is over-anxious to reach the Nanok while daylight still remains. At any 

rate, we move too fast. All my strength is not enough to keep the dorys from 

yawing somewhat. I notice small quantities of salt water splash again and again 

into the outer dory. I did not consider the amount to be of any consequence. 

Besides, the gloom shrouded Nanok is near. 

Quite suddenly I find myself in water up to my neck! One splash too many has 

entered the outer dory and it has submerged! My juke suit keeps me afloat, but I 

lost hold of the steering oar. 

Men in the motorboat are intent upon reaching the Nanok. None are looking back 

to see how I am faring! The hood of my juke suit is up over my head, but it is not 

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secured tightly about my face or neck. I yell loudly as possible but I am unheard 

above noise of the outboard motor! Finally, just before they were to disappear in 

the growing darkness, one of the men happened to look back and saw my plight. 

The motorboat came to a halt. I reached for the stern of the sunken dory but 

missed. It was beyond my reach. 

Those in the motorboat concentrated on saving the fresh water-filled dory whose 

gunwale still protruded perhaps an inch above fjord level. 

Seawater trickled slowly into my juke suit from around my neck. I was trapped 

inside my water-filling suit! The oar floated nearby but it also was beyond my 

reach. 

"Help!" I yelled, "I’m sinking!" 

By now the water level inside my juke suit was at knee level! I thrashing about, 

trying to swim toward the submerged but still-floating dorys. 

"You bastards!" I screamed, "I’m sinking!" 

When enough water had entered my suit I began to sink like a fishing lure. The 

men in the motorboat were busy as hell trying to steady the small dory filled with 

fresh water. Chips Delaney wheeled about, reached out as far as he possibly 

could without falling out of the boat and grabbed the head-top of my suit. Several 

others joined in and pulled me into their boat. I cursed the men all the way to the 

Nanok. Some of them were laughing. Disregarding the fact that one of the men 

was Talledo, I swore at all of them. Fear and numbing cold shivered me. I didn’t 

give a good damn what I said. 

Wind has risen some and so have the waves. The night is clear but cold. I’ve had 

my very hot shower. When my body stopped steaming, I dressed heavily and 

paced the deck. I must count my blessings. I also wondered how Lucille would 

react if told I drowned in a juke suit. 

October 6, Tuesday; Angmagssalik. 

Warren Morris is dead! 

Drowned last night. 

He had spoken about his great desire to master the kayak but we pooh-poohed 

the idea. Warren enjoyed all native things, especially clothing. 

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Supposedly, Warren was coming out to the Nanok to get his dog Rusty. I can’t 

imagine how he intended to carry the one-third-sized Eskimo husky on his kayak. 

He must have drowned about the time I was taking my shower. They assumed 

he was tightly secured about the waist as necessary to keep water from seeping 

into the low-lying kayak cockpit. The rising wind and short, choppy waves might 

have caused him to capsize. The craft is narrow and Warren was not skilled 

enough to untie his waist and wriggle out of the craft. We are told he was found 

near the shore floating upside down. What a waste! He was a very nice young 

man and will be missed. They have his body in the army storage shed to protect 

it from animals. 

Impossible to boat more water today, too much ice along the shore. It is too thick 

to break through with the motor boat, and too dangerous for the Nanok to try. 

Loaded yet more supplies for Comanche Bay. 

We are tied to the Aklak to combine resistance against the wind. If our anchor 

fails to hold, maybe hers will. I wonder if anyone has considered what would 

happen if both vessels lost anchorage at the same time? Tangled anchors? 

Worse? 

In evening winds die. We go to see a movie in the small army base mess hall. 

The local governor and his wife are with us. Movie is called Unfinished Business. 

A very nice name for the dumb picture. Don’t know why we want to see a movie 

at this time of tragedy anyway. 

There is no spirit in the soldiers who are present. Morris’ death hangs a pall over 

the entire village. Another movie, The Bugle Sounds, was about to be shown, but 

Elmer Comer and I have no heart to watch it. Besides, we have seen it before. 

Back to the Nanok we go along with others. Macon Leroy Roach is already on 

board and has hot coffee waiting. We drink and discuss Morris’ fate. A pity. 

October 7, Wednesday; Comanche Bay. 

Was routed out of my sack at 4 am to get underway. Our mooring lines are 

frozen stiff and some come apart when wrapped around our powerful winch’s 

drum. 

The Aklak gets herself blown ashore but manages to free herself. 

Arriving at Comanche Bay we drop both hooks. As usual, winds near seventyfive 

miles per hour plague the Nanok. The hooks hold, but for how long? Nanok 

is covered with a four to six inch-thick blanket of ice. 

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Skipper says we must remain in this hell’s hole wind tunnel until we unload, but it 

is too rough to attempt any landing. 

I stand the pilot house watch in the evening. Former Lt. Crockett of the U.S. Navy 

keeps me company. He is now a U.S. Army major. As a Navy man, he was with 

Admiral Richard E. Byrd. He is a class gentleman and a fascinating storyteller. 

October 8, Thursday; Comanche Bay. 

Wind is hiding out there somewhere, ready to pounce upon us at any time. We 

have much work to do and begin to do it. Captain Mag is not snarling at me as 

often as he had a few days ago. He actually smiled at me several times within a 

few minutes. This is a mistake on his part. I now know that he must be human. 

He tells me several unfunny jokes and I laugh like hell. 

God-a-mighty-damn-boy! What a job! 

Dilly, Talledo, Connors, and I work our asses tight offloading. Again we have to 

break ice off our lines in order to flex them and raise the boom. 

We are relieved in the afternoon. To rest? Hell no!! We are sent ashore to work. 

Spent rest of day pulling drums of fuel oil up hill. The morning was tough, but this 

is medieval torture. 

October 9, Friday; Comanche Bay. 

Waited for Captain Taylor and Major Crockett to come on board. We leave the 

bay hopefully for the last time this year, but I’ve hoped that before. 

It got colder and rougher than hell in the afternoon and I took sick. A combination 

of flu and seasickness methinks. Good buddy Jones relieves me of the last hour 

of my wheel watch. I go below and heave all the salmon I had eaten earlier. 

Robby, Clark, Roach, and several others are singing one of our favorite, 

unnamed songs: 

Eyes right! Foreskins tight! 

Assholes to the rear! 

We’re the boys who make 

no noise 

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We’ve all got gonorrhea. 

We’re the heroes of the 

night, 

We would rather fuck than 

fight, 

We’re the heroes of 

The "skinback fuseliers." 

Hot damn! I’ve never laughed and vomited at the same time before! 


Unable to stand a.m. watch. Have high fever and no strength and in a constant 

chill. As the day progresses I feel better and conclude that what I have is a 

common cold. 

We pull into Angmagssalik Harbor and tie alongside the USCG Cutter Northland. 

Our two passengers go ashore. Many of us go on board the Northland and buy 

as much pogey bait as they allow us to. We then get to see a movie called Riders 

of the Purple Sage. Talk about an oldie!!! It must have been Thomas Alva 

Edison’s first movie! 

Fish chowder in the evening. I have no appetite even for the chocolate bars I 

purchased. My legs wobble with weakness and I have difficulty breathing. Too 

bad we don’t have a hospital- full of nurses. 

Our swabbies played touch-tackle football with the army and the coasties won! 

Captain Maggie must have been the referee. 

Northland has several Eskimo women on board who were wounded supposedly 

in or near Iceland. No other details. 

October 11, Sunday; Kap Dan. 

A group from the Nanok go ashore to attend the funeral of Warren Morris. I go 

also. It was suggested that Captain Magnusson bury Warren at sea because 

there is only a shallow depth of earth or silt in which to bury a coffin. There is fear 

that a shallow grave could be easily desecrated by animals. Our skipper wisely 

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efuses to even participate. He feels that one day Morris’ family would question 

why their soldier son was not buried ashore. He doubted that they would accept 

the excuse of "lack of earth-depth." 

Because of animals, it is decided that Warren should be buried as close as 

possible to the army barracks. Since there are no genuine coffins available, a 

wide, flat, wooden packing crate was used. What a difficult job carrying even the 

packing-crate coffin around the rock-strewn hillside. Many Eskimos, particularly 

women, sit atop large rocks nearby to watch the proceedings. There is much 

weeping and cries of grief coming from them. Perhaps there is merit to the rumor 

the handsome sergeant is the father of several local children. 

The packing crate coffin is lowered into the shallow silt. Honor guards from army, 

navy, and coast guard stand at attention. The squad I am in face one side of the 

grave and the rest of the guard are on the opposite side, and some at the coffin’s 

foot. 

The Northland’s skipper stands at the foot of the coffin. There are gaping 

openings between crate boards. The Northland’s skipper reads a short, simple 

eulogy and tosses a symbolic handful of soil onto the crate. 

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." 

Solemnity embraces everyone. I see thin lines of Warren’s body through the 

spaces between boards. As soil lands on the coffin, much of it falls through the 

cracks onto Morris. As I watch, my mind wanders. I think of Warren’s parents so 

far away, unknowing at the moment that their son is being buried. I stupidly think 

of what it would have been like to visualize at his birth that one day he would 

drown himself in, of all things, a kayak, in Greenland, then be buried in a packing 

crate near the Arctic Circle. 

At funeral's end, I met the old Greenlandic gentleman that built the kayak for 

Morris. My first reaction was to shout profanities at the guy, but he was so 

genuinely remorseful, I just smiled and patted his shoulder. 

After services, we return to the Nanok, up the anchor and head for some small 

army base known as Kap Dan. Roach, Rollston, and Connors are left visiting on 

board the Northland. Our skipper doesn’t seem to be worried about them; what a 

guy! 

If the Northland receives orders to leave for some distant place, what will become 

of our men? 

At Kap Dan we offload many barrels of fuel oil and bagged food of some sort, 

flour, sugar, rice, etc. Eskimo women assist to swiftly offload three small cargo 

boats onto shore. An extremely overweight woman rolls her eyes at Talledo. He 

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surprises me. He is embarrassed and flustered! I wonder if the lady knows about 

such things as diets. 

Eskimo women are much like many other women I know. They prize attractive, 

colorful clothing, their children, and their man. If they resent the meagerness of 

their belongings of their social status, it is not visible. 

Eskimo women carry their babies in a leather pouch slung across their back like 

an indian papoose ... somewhat like arrows in a quiver. One mom carries a large 

basket of coal atop her head while baby is free to watch over mother’s shoulder. 

Mom stumbles under the load she carries and almost falls to her knees. Father, 

sitting atop a boulder nearby, casually watching the proceedings, removes the 

pipe from his mouth and with a somewhat impatient voice reprimands mom for 

her clumsiness. Mom scrambles to her feet without a word of protest and hurries 

up the hill with her load. 

All is not work for mothers. Occasionally, one of the menfolk will take six or eight 

women for a pleasure ride in an umiak, a long, wide, and deep, sealskin-covered 

woman’s boat. The man will sit in the stern with a steering paddle. Each woman 

must pull an oar. Length of the pleasure trip seems to be limited only by the 

woman’s energy. 

Hair stylists would envy the elaborate hair-do’s of Eskimo women. The hair is 

usually long and very dark. It is rolled and fashioned into magnificent loops, 

swirls, rolls, pleats, and braids. It shines as if varnished. The varnish is really 

whale, seal, or musk oxen oil. It has an unpleasant odor but the artistic results 

justify the odor. 


Up anchor, leave Kap Dan early in a.m. and arrive at another tiny village in a 

couple of hours. Maggie does not mention the name of the place. 

The villagers perform a drum dance for our entertainment. It varies somewhat 

from the dance performed at Julianehåb on September fourth. As before, Clark 

and I do our appreciation dance. Talledo says Clark and I resemble chickens 

who just had their heads cut off, but not as pretty. Dillon photographs our 

terpsichorean efforts and promises that after war’s end each crew member will 

receive copies of all photos he has taken of us. 

We leave the village and arrive at Angmagssalik. Since the Northland is here, I 

ask Maggie’s permission to go fetch our three crewmen. Maggie refuses ... must 

have some crotchety bug up his ass, telling me he must punish the guys for 

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staying on board the Northland. Late in p.m., a small boat from the Northland 

brings the guys home. 


I purchase a new mattress cover, pillow case, and a dozen handkerchiefs from 

Northland’s small stores. 

Lately, Robbie keeps picking on me for ridiculous little things, such as the fact I 

use too much salt, or I fail to fully throw the security dog on the forecastle hatch, 

or my shoes were left lying on the deck and in his path, etc. I am finally provoked 

into telling him to: "go piss up a rope!" 

He tells me never to speak to him again, for crissake!! He is sure growing moody 

lately! Dillon says he is at a loss for something to do to bring Robbie back to 

earth. 

Busy day of paint chipping. Learned some Eskimo language from Lars Ebersson. 

He has me repeating a very interesting sounding phrase but will not tell me what 

it means. He just smiles when I ask. I fear it is very bad so I never repeat it. 

Skipper is ashore all day. Two giant, gasoline-powered electric generators come 

on board from the Northland. They are almost too heavy to lift with boom and 

rope falls. We carry and transfer them onto a small shoreside scow. They are a 

gift from heaven because Angmagssalik has never had electricity before. One 

unit will surely go to the army base. 

Petrenko has repaired my harmonica so in gratitude I punish him by playing a 

few tunes. 

Passengers come on board. They are named Brennan, Ki, Lars and Major 

Crockett. Abe Brill comes to complain that Robbie is picking on him. Brill has 

tears in his eyes. I believe Robbie dwells too much about returning home. 

October 14, Wednesday; Angmagssalik. 

Left in a.m. and arrived at another small, remote Eskimo village a short way up 

one of the many fjords hereabouts. All passengers and the skipper go ashore 

and later return with two dead seals that I load on board. 

Back at anchor at Ang. An iceberg twice the size of the Nanok rammed into the 

anchored freighter Hilton. I signaled the Hilton with blinker light to warn her of the 

122

danger, but being at anchor, there wasn’t much they could do but to accept the 

ram. Same thing happened to the Northland today. 

October 15, Thursday; Unidentified village. 

Northland wants the Nanok to tow a scow somewhere. Maggie says: "bullshit!" 

He tells them we must leave and have no time to wait until the scow is ready. 

Away we fly toward some other village. Part way there, we come across a Danish 

nurse in an umiak being towed by a putt-putt. A putt-putt is a double prow boat 

made of thick, curved, wooden timbers. The boat has no ribs and requires none. 

It is about sixteen feet long, eight feet wide and four feet deep. It has a miniature 

cabin midship which houses a one cylinder, kerosene-powered engine. 

The vessel resembles a toy tug boat. The engine fires once per second with an 

ear-splitting "pow!" Sound that echoes back from icebergs and distant mountains. 

Each "pow!" sends a giant, doughnut-shaped smoke ring out of the short, fat 

smokestack. Continual "Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!" is enough to send one’s 

brain running for cover from side to side in one’s head. 

The two vessels are escorted by two kayaks. We learn the nurse makes a round 

of each village periodically to tend to the sick and lame. No overabundance of 

medical attention here. We take the passengers, umiak, and kayaks on board 

and tow the putt-putt to the village. All passengers are put ashore and Maggie 

goes with them while we boat fresh water. 

Robbins and Delaney paw the dirt, bare their teeth and snarl at one another. A 

grave offence was committed. Delaney sat where Robbie was thinking of sitting. 

Chips has guts but no surplus of brains. He’s about two-thirds the size of meanass 

Robbie. No blows are struck, but almost. I suppose we could have buried 

Chips at sea. His wife Catherine would be proud of her courageous hero. The 

two end their fracas by shouting dirty names at one another. 

Skipper returns and distributes two cans of beer to each crew member. I trade 

mine for loud-mouth Stan’s four candy bars. He sucks up beer like wolves suckup 

water. 

Lars invited me to visit his home but I am too tired to go. Guess I hurt his 

feelings. 

It grows late but Robbie and Chips have not finished hissing. Tempers are thin as 

a thread of gossamer silk; everyone’s are thin these days. 

123


While leaving the village, the Nanok’s bow is pointed toward Ang. Enroute, 

Sullivan Jones is operating the boom’s lift lines, trying to remove shrink twists 

that have developed. As the large block is being raised, I grasp it’s steel hook for 

the fun of it and am lifted from the deck. It is horseplay and I expect Sully will 

lower me to the deck after lifting me a few feet. Up, up, up I go, about eight feet 

high. If I let go the hook I could be injured in the fall. 

"Down! You dog!" I shout at Jonesy. He is laughing and so am I. Up, up, up I go! 

"Hey! Dammit!" I yell good naturedly, "put me down you jackass!" 

Sully wears a fiendish grin now. He secures the lift line to a cleat and tugs at the 

lines that swing the boom from side to side. Soon he swings the boom outboard. 

Maggie hangs partly out of the pilot house shutter opening, grinning from ear to 

ear. I expect him to order Jonesy to set me down but he does not! 

Outboard I go, legs flailing in the air. This is madness! The Nanok is traveling at 

top speed and I am clothed heavily. If I should lose my grip on the hook, I’d 

drown for sure! 

"Hot dammit!" I scream, "pull me in!!" I am no longer laughing, I’m scared as hell! 

Maggie does not intercede! Jonesy is guffawing hilariously as he begins to lower 

me down toward the sea. I fold up my legs to keep them out of the water. Jones 

shows no mercy and lowers me even more! 

"Help!!" I yell in desperation. I can no longer hold my legs up so I drop them into 

the water. Rushing water tugs at my body and my arms are growing weak. 

"Help! Help!" I scream, "God damn it, captain!" I yell. Still no response from him. 

Finally Jones lifts me and swings me inboard. He lowers me partway down , then 

suddenly releases the lift line. I tumble onto the deck like a wet mop. I curse 

Jonesy with every dirty word I know. As quickly as I can regain my leg strength 

and breath, I go after him. It is my intention to literally toss him overboard without 

caring about consequence. I froth at the mouth. Jones is gone. Where in hell 

could he hide on a vessel this small? 

After more than an hour, complete fatigue overtakes me and I quit searching. 

Much later Jones appears from somewhere, nonchalantly eating a candy bar. I 

throw a heavy army shoe and narrowly miss a nimble target. Had I drowned, 

what story would Jones and the skipper give to a board of inquiry? 

In evening Clark teaches me to make oatmeal cookies which the crew enjoy. 

Next, he is to teach me to make pies. 

124


Boated one dory of fresh water. 

Chips and I go to army base and haul back a load of food stuffs gratis. Armed 

services will never organize a smooth-running logistics program. This handful of 

army weathermen have received enough sugar to feed the world for 200 years, 

several tons! 

We leave Ang. and arrive at "Curio" or, as the Greenlanders call it, "Simiutaq." An 

army yardbird beats at a piano while a few of us Carusos sing a few screechy 

songs. Clark and I also play some ping-pong. 

Back on board the Nanok, Clark guides and helps me create seven pies and a 

large batch of biscuits. Rumor number 30,000: the Nanok may stay northeast for 

quite a while. Bull puckey!! Supposedly there is much more work for us to do in 

this area... What!! Back to Ang. 


Moving south, high winds join us. In spurts, near the hundred mile per hour 

range. They tear at the Nanok. Wave tops become airborne and are carried into 

the smoke stack. The diesel falters but does not stop. There is fear that if the 

engine stops and the Nanok wallows, the ship could easily capsize. 

I am seasick. Retching and vomiting have emptied my stomach and bowels, all 

the way to my rectum. I begin to vomit small shreds of blood. When the skipper 

notices this he orders me to leave the wheel and lay below. He personally takes 

over the wheel. 

I clamber cautiously down the outside ladder and stumble forward across the 

crazily pitching deck to the forecastle, down the ladder and into my sack, soaking 

wet. Connors tells me that the heavy, wooden grating in the stern of the ship on 

which hawsers are coiled for drying, has been torn loose and has drifted away. 

Nanok is below water more than it is atop it. She pitches and lurches. Twice I am 

tumbled from my sack. Connors says that the drums of diesel fuel oil lashed with 

cable on deck have also been torn away and are gone! Some life boats have 

been damaged. 

The forecastle ships much water. The patch over the hole in the bow is leaking 

profusely. It pours down the forecastle ladder and into the crew quarters. 

Mercifully, not into the bunks. 

125

Warren Morris’ dog Rusty and Labrador retriever Quick, howl and vomit and slide 

around in an aggregate of vomit, excrement, and salt water. Roll of the vessel 

hurls them helter-skelter into lockers and bulkheads. They do not allow 

themselves to be held or tied down in any way. Both are covered with yuk and 

haven’t the sense to lie down in some narrow niche even though there are many 

places available to them. 


The sea and I are at peace today. I feel a bit better and manage to eat and retain 

a few dry soda crackers. Should anyone pass this way again, I hope they will find 

my stomach and intestines and return them to me. 

Shortly after leaving our anchorage we receive radio instructions to return to Ang. 

So we do an about-face. I stand my watch on the bow. It will be too dark and 

treacherous to enter Ang. Harbor so the Nanok will have to heave-to and ride the 

waves all night outside. Hope this old wooden shoe holds together. She creaks 

and wails. I believe she is seasick also. 

Loneliness is easy to come by, especially at sea and at night when all is blacked 

out. It is like late autumn ashore, when trees have been stripped bare of all 

leaves and shiver naked, facing the onslaught of the first freezing rain, after all 

four-legged creatures have found places to hide. 

During wartime no lights are permitted on deck. Whenever a hatch is being 

opened, indoor lights switch off automatically and are replaced by very dim blue 

lights. When the hatch is closed again, off go the blue lights and on come the 

bright whites. Not even a match or cigarette flame is permitted to show on deck. 

It is a fact that the flame of a match can be seen from many miles away. 

Excellent assistance for an enemy. 

This night is without moon. Therefore their are only faint shadows for the 

straining eye to see. Tilting decks cause a loss of equilibrium. I move along the 

deck more by sense of feel and memory rather than by sight. There loom black 

shadows of an air scoop, winch, booms and life-boats. It is not unlike being alone 

on an alien planet. There is a faint feeling of fear rather than cold. 

When I was quite young, a number of us boys on a dare entered a cemetery on a 

cold winter night. Because I was the youngest, I found myself suddenly deserted 

by the older boys. They hid behind tombstones and as I ran in panic, they 

shouted weird sounds at me. It seems as though I can hear the same sounds 

coming at me from behind every shadow on deck. 

126

I grope my way up the ladder and onto the gun deck to substitute-stand an 8:30 

to 10;30 watch, after just completing my 4 to 8 stint. In the almost total darkness I 

cannot see or anticipate the oncoming smash of large waves. I can, however, 

feel that the vessel is rising swiftly up the peak of a monstrous wave and know I 

am about to plummet down into a valley between waves. 

On the gun deck I stagger as a drunkard, groping for the three inch cannon I 

know to be nearby. It is always a relief to reach the cannon without losing 

balance and tumbling into the sea. 

As Talledo had taught me, I carry in my parka jacket’s pocket that short length of 

21 thread manila line. Sitting on the deck beneath the breach of the gun my legs 

are wrapped around it’s base. I use the line to lash myself to the gun. Thus the 

cannon partly shelters me from the onslaught of flying waves. 

Rules are that a man must stand bow watch whenever the ship is underway, 

regardless of weather conditions. What purpose I serve on this totally black night 

is beyond my comprehension. If there were a giant iceberg out there, or a 

shoreline in our path, it would be impossible for me to see either of them. I now 

barely see the cannon I cling to. I curse myself for volunteering to substitute for 

an ailing crew member. My back aches and tires under continuous pounding of 

heavy, solid waves that manage to fall upon me. The two hour watch renders me 

physically exhausted. 

Sometimes when I stand a watch such as this, I find myself intermittently dozing 

in a fitful stupor of dreams, not necessarily caused by homesickness, though it 

must be a contributing factor. Dreams offer relief from reality. They pacify my 

hunger for the feel of earth beneath my feet, for sounds of happy, familiar voices, 

good music, laughter, ethnic food, warmth, and clothing that is neither damp nor 

frosted. I dream too of picnics and car rides and walks along a sunny country 

road in summertime. How can I dream these things with ice water dripping off my 

face and drenching the inside of the collar of my parka?! 

I think of civilization as something unreal, something I’d only read about. I often 

find solace in silent prayer that I fear would embarrass me if others could hear. 

During prayer I often experience a disturbing vision. After surviving several years 

of wartime privation and discomfort, I die just before war’s end. 

I am hating the confining closeness of the Nanok and blame her for most of my 

gloomy feelings. 


127

We remain hove-to until midday as the elements flail the Nanok. I think she too 

feels abandoned, lonely, and alone. 

Raging weather pauses to catch it’s breath and madam Nanok gently lifts her 

skirt and grasps the momentary opportunity to lope into harbor, literally sideways. 

We drop hook. Ki Jensen and others come on board. 

Word comes that the Russians repulse a German mass attack on Stalingrad 

yesterday. Thousands are killed and some forty-five army tanks are destroyed. 


We leave the harbor and await in the open sea for the arrival of several vessels 

that we are to guide into harbor. Radio informs us they feared bad weather and 

high-tailed it back to the safety of BW 1. 

Some board the Northland for movies. 

Guns and I wanted to whip-up some snow cream but Cookie would not allow us 

to do so. No reason except that he is irritated and has his porcupine quills cocked 

in readiness to fire. Snow cream is not too bad when you are in dire need for 

goody that is not too bad. Recipe: pack a cake pan full of clean snow, mix 

powdered egg yolks with powdered milk and water, sugar, splashes of vanilla or 

lemon extract and pour the goop over the snow. Mix, then demonstrate your 

gluttony. 

During evening card game, Petrenko has again raised the ire of little Elmer 

Comer. The four-eyed bantam rooster challenges Goliath to a duel of fisticuffs. 

Everyone takes several steps backward, clearing the area for the slaughter about 

to take place. Happily, Goliath does not accept the challenge. There is a great, 

unison sigh of relief. It is certain that the courageous but foolish Elmer, with his 

spurs bristling, would surely have died on the spot he stood on. 

I once witnessed a building being razed. A huge crane swung an eight-ton iron 

ball like a pendulum. The ball struck the doomed building one blow in it’s solar 

plexus and four stories collapsed. Petrenko’s fist was reminiscent of that ball. His 

clenched fist is a mace. His knuckles are warts of steel. The two-thirds of his 

head-hair that is missing probably left in fear. 


128

We wave "goodbye" to the cutter Northland and freighter Hilton as we clear a 

path for them through a dense field of small ice bergs that glut the harbor’s 

entrance. The freighter Belle Isle is waiting outside the harbor for us to guide her 

in and we do so. The name Belle Isle brings home closer to me. I am from 

Detroit, Michigan, which is on the western shore of the Detroit River. The river 

separates Detroit from Windsor, Canada. The river’s south end empties into Lake 

Erie. It’s north end is the funnel mouth for Lake St. Clair. In the river, between 

Detroit and Windsor, lies the "most beautiful island park in the world." It is some 

seven miles long and about one forth as wide. It is where young men take their 

dates to park, spark, and study the moon on warm summer evenings. 

Robbie, Cookie, and I rip off a few songs that will never sound good again. 

Maggie and I have coffee together in the crew’s quarters. He is in a very pleasant 

mood. We have a long, casual, enjoyable conversation at the galley’s table. I try 

to steer conversation toward my desire for a promotion. Maggie ends our talk 

abruptly and excuses himself. Apparently I have not changed his mind about me 

... yet. Perhaps I should attend radio school or strike for a signalman’s rating. But 

what the hell! I enjoy being in the deck force. 

Hope we don’t freeze solid in this hole for the entire winter. More and more 

icebergs, larger and larger. 


We pull alongside the Belle Isle in the a.m. and she loads us with much mail for 

BE 2. There is also a pile of valises, duffle bags, sleep sacks, foot lockers, skis, 

snow shoes, soldiers and civilians. We do the Belle Isle’s hauling because the 

Nanok stands a better chance of penetrating the iceberg field. The larger vessel 

with less maneuverability could easily become trapped and freeze-in solid. If the 

Nanok should freeze-in for the winter, she would not be as great a loss. 

There is much mail for the Nanok as well. Packages of goodies too. It is 

customary to share whatever goodies we receive from home, with members of 

the crew. Elmer is most fortunate for he receives the largest, heaviest parcel of 

all. Elmer is very unselfish. Therefore he surprises me by fleeing aft in a peculiar, 

furtive fashion with his unopened parcel. He arouses curiosity so several of us 

follow stealthily behind him. He opened the parcel in what he thought to be 

privacy of his miniature quarters. Amongst other tid-bits he unpacked one quart 

of extra large, green olives. Almost immediately my mouth watered and jowls 

pinched at thought of savoring the briny flavor. It is near miraculous that the glass 

jar arrived unbroken even though it was heavily protected with packing. Judging 

by the manner which Elmer caresses his windfall, I know that none but he will 

ever taste the pickled fruit. After sampling the olives, he hid the balance of them 

behind a drawer of his desk-like cabinet. 

129

We retreat to the forecastle and Elmer arrives shortly thereafter and shares his 

other goodies, but no olives. Someone casually mentions that "it sure would be 

nice if someone were to receive a batch of olives for a change." Elmer is startled 

and studies face after face but sees no indication that anyone knows his secret. 

We are amused. 

Elmer was called to the bridge to do some work for the skipper. Several of us 

took the opportunity to get at Elmer’s olives. Each took a handful, leaving but a 

handful in the jar. Then, to confuse Elmer even more, we hid the jar behind some 

books where he was sure to find them and wonder how they had gotten there 

Note: We were never to hear another word about the olives. 

We batter much ice to get to Simiutaq. After offloading both cargo and personnel. 

As reward we are allowed to go ashore, mooch some pogey bait, play ping-pong, 

and listen to a half-crocked piano player play a half-cracked piano. 

Several of my letters are from Lucille. The inside of one of the envelopes smells 

of cosmetics. I curl up in my sack and sniff the envelope far into the night. 

Talledo and I are getting along great. 

October 24, Saturday; Simiutaq. 

Good lord what a guy will not do for entertainment! 

Right after breakfast several of us go ashore to the recreation hall where they 

hold a command performance for the Nanok crew. A movie called Ex-champ. A 

good movie but older than the ten commandants. 

Everything has gone awry today. We demonstrate seamanship equivalent to the 

activities of Keystone Kops. Our stupid seamanship inspires Chips Delaney to 

come roaring down the ladder shouting: "where are the seamen?! We had some 

when we left Boston!" 

Chips did not know Maggie was having coffee with us at the time. Maggie 

explodes at Chips, calling him a "piss to the windward" sailor. 

The Nanok hurries back to Angmagssalik. 


130

Wow!! Corn on the cob up here near the Arctic Circle! I have one and one-half 

cobs and Guns gives me another. I guess the Old Tar Heel has eaten too much 

of it in his youth. I wonder where the cobs came from. Fairbanks said it was 

delivered through a secret tunnel that runs from Iowa to Angmagssalik. 

Were supposed to see a movie ashore this p.m., but heavy winds caused Maggie 

to kill the idea. He is reluctant to leave the Nanok with only a skeleton crew on 

board. We are scheduled to meet and escort-in some vessel tomorrow. If she 

arrives early enough, we’ll get to see a movie later. 


Worked fabricating a large rope fender. Been assigned "Captain of the Head" 

and "mess punk" duties for next week. At the evening movie the special light bulb 

inside the projector burned out. Sorry, no replacement. Some of the crew remain 

sitting in darkness, listening to the sound track of a Kay Kyser movie called, 

That’s Right, You’re Wrong. My imagination is not good enough to imagine an 

entire movie. .... 

Back to the Nanok and my sack. 


Radioman Dexter has a scoop! Says he decoded a radio message stating the 

Nazis captured the United States and took it with them to Germany! 

Petrenko looks serious and as if he is about to cry. 

"Honest to God!?" he asks. 

Dexter is not sure if Petrenko really means what he has said. Neither am I. 

"Yes, it’s true alright," says Two-Gun Dexter, "but they promise to return it after 

the war." 

"Oh!" says Pete, obviously relieved. 

I am beginning to think we all have some of our screws loose. 

Then Radioman Jenner receives a later radio message that a soldier at 

Comanche Bay has broken a leg and the Nanok is requested to go fetch him. 

Since Maggie has agreed to go, it is suggested that we might as well take along 

131

a few additional supplies and mail. Instead of just a few supplies, it turns out to 

be a number of tons! 

The stuff is onloaded and we dash over to C.B. As usual, it is a wind tunnel gone 

mad. Only good thing is that the winds have cleared most of the icebergs out of 

the bay and it’s entrance. The outboard putt-putt refuses to start so the dory, 

laden with supplies and mail, has to be rowed back and forth in terrible seas and 

wind. It is essential that we do not wait for better conditions. The man with the 

broken leg cannot wait to be treated. 

Son of a bitch! Maggie learns the broken leg is a hoax! He is as mad as a 

bigamist supporting three mothers in law! The base pulled the hoax just to 

receive more mail. Can’t blame them. They will be frozen-in here all winter. 

Maggie’s orders are to plunk the bulk of the cargo on the beach at the water’s 

edge. We then beat it back to Ang. 

We heave-to outside the harbor all night to await the arrival of the freighter 

Margaret Lykes that should have arrived yesterday. 


Radio message indicates the Margaret Lykes will be here early this p.m., so we 

enter harbor and drop hook. 

Late afternoon we slip out of harbor to greet the Lykes but she does not show. 

Instead she radios her arrival is changed until tomorrow. Is she a maiden that 

cannot make up her mind!? 

Back into harbor to drop hook. Davey Jones has the watch so I lay below for a 

snooze. 


At 0430 we again heave-to outside Ang. Harbor. In and out, out and in, in and out 

like a jack-in-the-box! Late in the p.m. her majesty Margaret Lykes announces 

her arrival. We escort her to anchor area. 

Some go ashore for a movie. Dilly, Dreams, Vacar, Rollston, Two-Gun 

Dexter, and I remain to stand watch. 

132

I make a batch of snow cream, and Dilly breaks out a bottle of coke for each of 

us. Enjoyed mine with a piece of apple pie. Dilly speaks encouragingly about my 

rating possibility. 


During my watch, Maggie has me hoist anchor. Before it is fully aweigh, he 

pushes the annunciator to "Full Speed Ahead!" Like the rest of the crew, he too 

could use a long rest. He demonstrates unreasonable impatience quite often, too 

often lately. 

Ice bergs and thick cake ice fields stretch to the horizon. Nanok has a narrow 

escape. As we push aside a very large berg, it decides it does not want to be 

pushed aside. Pressure from the starboard side of the Nanok’s bow causes the 

berg to roll over onto it’s back. After a great amount of pushing, the berg decides 

to turn right side up, then down onto the Nanok’s bow. The berg’s weight pushes 

the bow deep under water. We slide to port and away from the berg. The action 

causes both berg and Nanok to bob up and down, up and down, but not in 

unison. 

We later rendezvous with the USCG Cutter Ingham and the freighter Ozark. The 

Ingham was the Ozark’s escort and therefore chose not to enter Angmagssalik’s 

ice-choked harbor. Instead she headed back to Iceland. The Ozark followed us in 

to a safe anchorage. 


Awakened at 0200. Four small scows have broken loose from the Ozark’s side 

with the help of several large, drifting icebergs. Talledo, Stan, and I recover and 

tow them back to the Ozark. Talledo is happy with my seamanship. He depends 

on me more often nowadays. I’m grateful and will not let him down. 

Maggie is expecting the cutter Northland with Admiral ‘Iceberg’ Smith on the 

’morrow. Mr. Brennan the civilian contractor sent us a free, stuffed turkey from 

the Ozark. It was kind and thoughtful of him and much appreciated by the 

Nanok’s crew. 

November 1942 

133

I decide to have some fun with the crew. I hurry down the ladder to the forward 

crew’s quarters and shout: "Attention men, the Admiral has arrived!" I expected 

everyone to snap to attention and salute. I was to laugh fiendishly and inform 

them that I am joking. 

The joke is on me! 

The Admiral, several of his staff, and Maggie, were having coffee at the crew’s 

mess table!! The Admiral looked at me as if I were demented. I believe I am also. 

My face must have resembled a red, portside running light. Being totally 

flustered, I salute awkwardly, poking my thumb into my eye, do an about-face, fly 

up the ladder, and fade away. 

November 1, Sunday; Angmagssalik. 

Not much to do except to haul a large scow from shore to the Ozark. Clark 

tosses out turkey and trimmings, cranberries, peas, corn on the cob, white 

potatoes, yams, apple pie, and ice cream. I wonder what the civilians are eating 

Stateside with rationing in force. 

My decision was to join the Coast Guard before they could draft me into the army 

infantry. Mud-filled trenches did not appeal to me. I figured that on board a ship, I 

would always have a clean place to sleep and some sort of warm food as long as 

I could stay alive. My decision was a good one. If it were not for petty haggling 

among Nanok crew members, things could be even more tolerable. Today’s 

mouth-fights are between Fairbanks and Connors, then Fairbanks and Guns 

Owens, then Guns versus Clark, then Clark and Stan and I versus Davey Jones. 

Now that it is November and the ice fields are choking the Nanok, we must be 

awful close to going stateside. Otherwise, we’re gonna wake up one morning to 

find the Nanok frozen-in for the winter. 

Admiral Smith does not appear as rumored. Why should he choose to visit on 

board a rag-tag lump such as the Nanok? 

November 2, Monday; Angmagssalik. 

We cleaned more than twelve inches of snow from the deck. The Northland is 

temporarily frozen-in outside the harbor. We tied up to a scow that was tied 

alongside the Ozark. Quick, Maggie’s Labrador retriever somehow fell overboard. 

I heard a splash, looked over the side, and there she was, hopelessly trying to 

scramble onto the scow. I jumped over the side and down onto the scow. Quick 

134

was about to disappear as I reached under water and caught her by her upper 

lip. Pulling her on board was something else. She was heavy, cold, and wet. 

Worse, her legs flailed and scratched at my face as I pulled her on board. Her 

eyes bulged like inflated balloons! Clark rescued her in identical fashion once 

before. 

Had coffee on board the Ozark late in the evening and visited her engine room. 

We are about out of fresh water. The plan is to boat some tomorrow. 

November3, Tuesday; Angmagssalik. 

Many in crew are assigned to boating fresh water. Skipper orders me to stay on 

board in the wheel house. He wanted just to chat. Asked me many things about 

my civilian life. I told him I left my production line job at the Dodge Brothers auto 

assembly plant to join the Coast Guard. He tells me much about his private life. A 

fascinating story teller. I slowly guide the conversation toward my desire for a 

rating. He surprises and encourages me by saying, we’ll see what we can do. 

The harbor is still navigable despite all the ice, but barely so. The Northland is 

still frozen-in outside harbor. If she remains frozen-in how in hell will we be able 

to exit?! 

I believe Maggie is just joking when he says negative things about the possibility 

of our returning stateside. He has mentioned more than once that he spends all 

of his Christmases at home and has no intention of doing otherwise. 

November 4, Wednesday; Angmagssalik. 

Nanok’s tanks are full of fresh water even after every crew member has 

showered and washed clothes. No end of hard work on the Nanok. Even a 

holiday does not mean complete idleness. The galley never ceases to function, 

mess punks must work, bow, pilot house, and engine room watches must be 

maintained. A holiday usually means only if one has none of the above duties, he 

can sack-in, write letters, read, or whatever. 

Two army weather specialists come on board. We push our way partly out of 

harbor so they can survey the icing situation firsthand. It is as expected. Very 

bad. 

135

Clark is on a rampage. He demands a rating elevation from Maggie. I wish him 

luck. He is without a doubt the best pot-trundler in the entire Greenland Patrol 

and Wooden Shoe Fleet. 

November 5, Thursday; Angmagssalik. 

With the two army weathermen on board, we up-anchor early in a.m. with 

intention of hauling them to Comanche Bay. Turned back, however. Skipper felt 

that should we manage to get out of Angmagssalik Harbor, we may never be 

able to get back in through the ice. The two army men are put ashore. 

In the p.m., we pull Ozark’s fresh water scow off the rocks in cold, heavy wind. 

We managed but almost at the cost of the life of several Nanok crew members. 

Violent argument brews between Jenner and Brill. Almost fisticuffs. Maggie plans 

to make a wild attempt to get out of here on the ’morrow. 

November 6, Friday; At sea. 

Early in a.m. we leave Angmagssalik for last time this year, we hope. It has 

usually been requiring several hours to inch through the near-shore ice field. 

Today it requires nearly ten hours. I estimate we had gotten twenty-five to thirty 

miles out to sea and were still encased in the ice field. 

The Northland is nowhere in sight. She must have broken free of the ice. 

Scuttlebutt has it that Maggie received orders to hole-up in Angmagssalik for the 

winter, but instructed radiomen not to acknowledge receipt of the message. They 

simply smile broadly and say they believe the skipper wants to be stateside for 

Christmas. 

The freighter Margaret Lykes followed us out through the ice field, but we soon 

lost sight of her. The Ozark was to tag along also. Never saw her at all. 

Darkness falls. I am bow-watch lookout. Jonesy is at the wheel. Sea is rough. 

Wind is full and biting cold. As usual, I lash myself under the breach of the three 

inch gun. 

The sea grows insane! It scales the bow and attempts to crush me. I try to think 

of home and warmth without success. We strike many ice cakes. Their arrival 

becomes known in total darkness when waves carry them over the bow and they 

bang down onto the gun deck, and again after they bounce from gun deck to 

main deck. 

136

Many cakes strike atop the cannon under which I sit. One cake must have been 

traveling horizontally for it strikes me on my right shoulder. Then it is gone, 

washed overboard from whence it came. My shoulder aches with pain and breath 

has been knocked momentarily from me. I gasp for air and inhale a mouthful of 

salt water that makes me retch. I curse loudly but the wind shrieks in laughter, or 

so it seems. 

The Nanok runs her head through a cluster of ice cakes and reverberates with a 

staccato of sharp bangs. Again rivulets creep through the neck area of my parka, 

down my belly and onto my privates. If this is the way to fight a war... 

We hear Nazi General Irwin Rommel’s latest attack on Egypt has ended 

yesterday after only sixty-six days. Better for him to die in Egypt then to face the 

wrath of Hitler. 

November 7, Saturday; At sea. 

Plowing through ice cakes and skirting bergs, the Margaret Lykes is astern once 

again. We are to escort her to a rendezvous with the trawler Natsek. Seas are 

rough as hell. Bergs pitch and toss like large chunks of potatoes in a witches 

cauldron of stew. 

I made ten dollar bets with both Roach and Comer that we will arrive in Boston 

prior to Christmas. I don’t really think so, but the bets are something for us to joke 

about. If we don’t get to the States before Christmas, I won’t mind losing because 

I won’t be needing the money. 

We lose the Lykes in mid-day and relocate her toward evening? She needs us 

like she needs three legs. Theory is, should we contact the enemy and one 

vessel or the other is sunk, hopefully there will still be at least one Allied vessel 

afloat to assist in the rescue of other ship’s survivors. 

Maggie is throwing another temper tantrum. Apparently irritation is not limited to 

the forecastle termites. This time he curses the Lykes skipper for her "now you 

see me, now you don’t" appearances. Of course, the Nanok shares no portion of 

the fault. 

Very bad news today, one of our bombers has crashed on the Ice Cap or into the 

sea in our vicinity. 

November 8, Sunday; At sea. 

137

Been hove-to all night. Too dangerous to travel the night in total darkness 

through an ocean of icebergs. Morning comes and there is no Margaret Lykes or 

Natsek. Skipper foams at the mouth in anger because of their absence. At ten 

a.m. the Lykes comes out from behind a giant berg. The Natsek peeks out from 

behind another. Natsek escorts us to a suitable anchor area. We drop hook and 

the Natsek ties alongside. 

The Natsek crew is loaded with dollars so we go on board to gamble. In jig-time 

we are making her crew broke again. Radioman Charles Jensen and Yeoman 

Robert Repucci have soon lost all but their jock straps. Stakes are as high as one 

hundred dollars per roll of the dice. Many of the Natsek swabbies are going home 

broke for Christmas. 

The freighter Belle Isle is here too. Some of her crew come on board and the 

Nanok’s crew win much of their folding money too. The Nanokians are extremely 

lucky. 

To speed things up, bets are being made on one roll of the dice. One guy bets 

another that his roll of the dice will produce a higher number count than that of 

his opponent’s roll. Others bet among themselves on the outcome of the original 

two betters. One guy rolls the dice and rolls an eight. The other guy rolls a nine 

and is therefore the winner. All of the others who made side bets among 

themselves win or lose accordingly. 

A seaman on board the Natsek claims to have been in the service two years and 

is still only a Seaman 1/c. Perhaps I am pushing for coxswain too hard? 

November 9, Monday; Unidentified fjord. 

We leave the Lykes, Natsek and Belle Isle at anchor. We search for and locate a 

small bay and enter it. Maggie blows the Nanok’s whistle again and again, 

hoping to attract members of the downed bomber that is supposedly in our 

vicinity. 

Robbins is pissed off at me. I was having chow when he hollered down into the 

galley that the anchor had to be catted. Being only partway through my meal, I 

did not respond to his call because Jones, Stan, and 

Connors, who had all finished eating, did respond. Very rarely do more than half 

the crew turn-to when called for anchor catting. As matter of fact, the worst "gold 

bricks" are often among those being praised for duties they never performed. 

Hook is later dropped in a tiny alcove of this remote, unidentified fjord. 

138

November 10, Tuesday; Unidentified fjord. 

Up anchor and out to sea, back and forth, north and south, searching for that lost 

bomber. Maggie hangs onto the ship’s whistle until I feel my nerves thinning out 

from the horrible sound. In evening we heave-to awaiting the arrival of the Lykes, 

Natsek and Belle Isle. They arrive and we all drop our hooks some distance from 

one another. 

It grows dark. Connors sights a green light while on pilot house watch. The light 

is challenged with our blinker. The light disappears. It is suddenly doused. Was it 

an enemy sub? A foreign vessel? Those who try to sleep are fully dressed 

including life jackets. 

November 11, Wednesday; At sea. 

Armistice day! Hooray!! For what?!!! 

What are we doing here?? 

World War I was the war to end all wars, right?! 

While the shroud of darkness still prevailed, skipper tried to fire the flare gun but 

it malfunctioned. Numerous hand-held flares are lit instead. Still in hopes of 

finding the bomber. 

Margaret Lykes claims she saw red flares last p.m. The day is spent searching 

and again we anchor for the night. 

Maggie orders all deck and other lights to be lit. We resemble a glowing 

Christmas tree. It is a bold and daring thing to do. If any enemy submarines are 

in the vicinity, they might well be afraid to attack us, fearing the lights to be a 

decoy and some major trap. How could they guess we are a puny trawler. 

If the bomber crew is within 2000 miles of the Nanok, they surely must have seen 

our glow. We are a man-made aurora borealis. No fireworks display could be 

more elaborate or colorful. 

Word is that the British have landed at Algiers. Where is that? 

November 12, Thursday; Prince Christian Sound. 

139

The Nanok has been underway most of the night. No Lykes, Natsek or Belle Isle. 

Morning finds us southbound in very rough seas. I am so seasick I stagger as if 

drunk. Clark is pitifully seasick. He vomits traces of blood. For the first time he is 

too ill to prepare lunch. All must do for themselves. Very few want food today. 

By four p.m. we enter shelter of Prince Christian Sound, quite near to Cape 

Farewell. It is calm here. We drop hook in over fifty fathoms of water. 

The Natsek does not respond to our radio call. We receive message that another 

plane is down on the ice cap. 

While there is relatively less ice here than at Angmagssalik, it is sure to flow this 

far south soon. We could still freeze-in for the winter. Rumors are that we have 

yet to assist in building another weather observation station. 

Supposedly, planes have located the downed bomber. 

November 13, Friday; Prince Christian Sound. 

Bad start today. Began by cleaning Maggie’s overflowing toilet. Then Roach falls 

down the ladder with Maggie’s lunch. The skipper’s teeth are bared again! 

Up anchor and at mouth of the fjord near the open sea we drop it again. Wind 

over the one hundred mile per hour mark. Both hooks hold fast. Natsek and Belle 

Isle appear and anchor nearby. 

The weather station we are to help build and haul supplies to, is high up the side 

of a mountain. 

Robbie and I are on good terms again. I stuck out my right hand and he shook it. 

Still hoping to be home for Christmas. Lots of time still left. 

Wow! 

Nazis have reached Marseille, France! 

Will we live long enough to see Germany defeated? 

Marseille yesterday; London tomorrow?? 

November 14, Saturday; Prince Christian Sound. 

140

We tie up to the Natsek that is tied to the Belle Isle. In afternoon we cross around 

to the starboard side of Belle Isle. They load us with fifty barrels of shark livers 

which we lash on deck with cable. 

We cross around and retie to the Natsek. I have a long, interesting bull session 

with cook Chester Benash. I try to finagle a polar bear uniform patch to sew onto 

my dress-blue uniform’s sleeve. We are entitled to do this as recognition for 

crossing the Arctic Circle. Although he has several, he will not part with any at 

any price. Says that when he gets back to the States, he wants to look "slick." I 

would too. 

The arrival of the us trawler Aklak is anticipated. Whenever I hear this name, I 

associate it with the sound of something soft and foul-smelling striking the 

ground. 

I practice blinker light signaling with Henry Schwencki, Nanok’s signalman. In 

evening, a Natsekian comes on board with a fine guitar. He plays and we drown 

him out with our lousy singing. 

By the time we finish gambling with the Natsek crew they won’t have a dollar left 

in their coffers. It is a bad luck bunch of guys. 

November 15, Sunday; Prince Christian Sound. 

Sunday chicken dinner was lousy for the first time. Cookie Clark did not put his 

heart into it, nor any other good ingredient. 

It blows up one hell of a cold, strong wind so we tie to the solidly anchored Belle 

Isle. Young Mister Hollingsworth is on board so we chat. 

Aklak arrives and brings mail and packages from home. I receive a letter from 

Lucille post-marked August eight! Holy moley! I also receive a box of homemade 

cookies, nuts, gum, and even hard candy. The box has been beaten to hell. 

Though damp, the cookies are intact. I devour eight and give the rest to Clark to 

dry in the oven. I leave to do several chores and when I return, all but two of the 

cookies have been eaten! I do my version of an indian curse dance! 

Latest news is that four new trawlers have arrived at BW 1 from the U.S. As soon 

as the missing bomber and crew have been accounted for, the Nanok is to return 

to BW 1, then to the States. (Sez hoo??) 

Nanok’s crew busy themselves separating the Aklak’s crew from their money via 

the galloping cubes. 

141

November 16, Monday; Prince Christian Sound. 

We leave the other vessels and run up the fjord to find a fresh water supply. A 

suitable waterfall has been found but Maggie decides the wind and waves are 

too great to risk using dorys to boat the water. Instead, he decides to drop one 

hook in mid-fjord and detach the other from it's chain. Slowly, then, he will back 

the vessel up until her stern is close to shore. The cable and chain will be boated 

ashore and secured to huge boulders. Slack on the cable will be taken up until 

both cables are taut. One end of the fire hose would be taken ashore and it’s 

other end would be secured to our pump on board ship. A short length of hose 

would be attached to the pump’s other side and would lead into the Nanok’s 

water tanks. 

We get the cable ashore, secure it, and draw it taut. Unfortunately, Maggie had 

not considered how he would keep the Nanok from swinging sidewise like a 

pendulum in a horizontal position. 

Heavy wind does indeed cause the vessel to swing like a kite attached to two 

separate kite strings. In the end we have to unfasten the cable from the bolder 

and re-attach it to the other anchor. The cable is damn near ruined by kinks 

formed in it when it was drawn tight around the odd shaped boulder. It is not the 

skipper’s best display of seamanship. Had I been the one who did the job or even 

suggested it, I could expect to remain a Seaman 1/c for the rest of my life. But 

when you are a skipper ... what the hell. No one would dare to even hint that the 

idea was a bad one. 

We hurry now to fill the tanks for the day grows short. Because of great waves, 

we can only boat a half dory full at a time. The chore is endless. I am pretty well 

soaked to the skin with seawater. My body is numbed with cold. My legs are stiff. 

It becomes very dark and Maggie decides the Nanok will stay put for the night. 

November 17, Tuesday; Prince Christian Sound. 

Maggie has the Nanok tied to the Belle Isle’s starboard side. The Natsek is tied 

to her port side. A giant iceberg drifts along and tries to scrape the Nanok off the 

Belle Isle's side. The Nanok has her engine "full ahead," trying to wedge her bow 

between the Belle’s side and the berg. No luck! The Natsek scampers around the 

Belle’s stern to come to Nanok’s assistance. The Natsek’s bow joins that of the 

Nanok and both skippers order "full ahead." 

Ever so slowly the giant berg is pushed forward. It then scrapes the bottom of the 

fjord and stops. Both small vessels push as hard as possible but the berg does 

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not tear loose from the fjord bottom! But it begins to capsize backward, away 

from the two trawlers. Finally it flops over backward and pulls away from fjord 

bottom. Both vessels continue to push the berg ever farther away from the Belle 

Isle. In the process, Natsek nearly scrapes some of her depth charges 

overboard. This presents a number of hair-raising moments. Dillon tries to 

photograph the goings-on, but it has grown too dark for his camera. 

Dillon has been told that he has been elevated from Ensign to Lieutenant (j.g.). I 

am happy for him. 

November 18, Wednesday; Prince Christian Sound. 

During the night the giant iceberg broke loose from the fjord bottom again. It 

began pushing the Nanok backward toward the mountain’s rock wall. The berg is 

at least five stories high and rather than continue to argue with it, we move to a 

safer location and drop hook. 

Early in a.m. we up-anchor and patrol the coast back and forth most of the day, 

still searching for the grounded bomber. Late in day we enter a rather large fjord 

off Prince Christian Sound. 

Behold! There is the Aklak at anchor! Actually, this fjord is simply a crack in the 

sky-scraping mountains that encase these fjords. The sides of the crack rise 

straight up and bend inward toward one another. The crack is wide enough to 

accept the width of several large houses and deep enough to enclose a tandem 

truck. Into one side of the crack is another, but much narrower, crack. It rises to 

the sky. Somewhere near the top of this smaller crack is a weather observation 

station. From the station, a net attached to the end of a rope is lowered. It is filled 

with supplies by the Aklak. The net is then hoisted up and disappears high up 

into the narrower crack. Someone up there empties the net and it is lowered 

again and again to be refilled. Looking straight up I can see only the narrowing of 

the crevasse, but no humans. It is a weird feeling in this remote, God forsaken 

place. 

We tie to the Aklak. She is loaded chock-a-block full with food stuffs. Cookie 

scrambles on board to talk the Aklak cook out of some goodies. I help to transfer 

them to the Nanok. He acquires six turkeys, three geese, fourteen chickens, a lot 

of soap and a large can of hard candies. 

For my effort, Clark gave me a pocket full of the candy. Won some poker money 

from Elmer and Abe Brill but stay even with Guns. Overall, not a bad day. 

Yesterday’s war activity? U.S. smashes a large part of the Japanese Fleet in the 

Solomon Islands. Twenty-three ships sunk and seven others damaged! Shouldn’t 

143

this be some sort of a record? I hope all is true, but since we get information that 

is second, third, forth and fifth-handed, it’s difficult to be sure. 

November 19, Thursday; At sea. 

We leave the area with three army men and mail for the Northland. Northland 

was to be at fjord’s mouth, but as usual, her whereabouts is elsewhere. The sea 

is rough and many are seasick including Maggie. 

Northbound, we come across the Northland far at sea. There are no handy 

nearby fjords so Maggie decides to attempt the transfer at sea, by dory. Two trips 

are made from Nanok to Northland. Very dramatic and dangerous. It was like 

watching a motion picture. Foolhardy too, methinks. 

Robbins performs the act masterfully. Thank heaven for his great strength and 

determination and ability to bend oars. The wind and sea does not cooperate. I 

have never seen greater fear in men’s eyes than that in the eyes of Robbie’s two 

army passengers. 

A number of two to three hundred pound chunks of ice are tossed onto Nanok’s 

deck by mischievous waves. Other, friendly waves wash them back overboard, 

otherwise we would have had to chop them into smaller pieces in order to lift and 

toss them overboard. 

Darkness falls before we can locate a friendly fjord so we heave-to for the night. 

November 20, Friday; At sea. 

Seas are so rough it feels like the Nanok is airborne again. Most of the crew is 

seasick. I am not and wonder why. 

We are southbound through bow-tossed flying chunks of ice and small bergs that 

perform like ballet dancers atop wave crests. Wave tops fly and splash across 

Nanok’s decks, freeze, and glaze them with crystal ice. Even when hanging onto 

the lifeline stretched from forecastle to pilot house aft, it is impossible not to slip 

and fall many times enroute. Rain and sleet impairs vision so again we heave-to 

for the night. 

We are to rendezvous with the Ozark and a troop transport that was with the 

vessel Reuben James when the James was sunk. It is so rough I am unable to 

stay put in my sack! 

144

November 21, Saturday; Unidentified fjord. 

Landmarks are unfamiliar so I kiddingly suggest we have missed our intended 

fjord at Julianehåb’s harbor. Fairbanks and Connors laugh themselves sick at my 

dead-reckoning suggestion. Amazingly enough, that’s exactly what happened! 

Maggie is much amused at my judgment. He states we are some sixty miles 

north of Julianehåb. 

A navy PBY Catalina flying boat circles overhead to inform us of our actual 

location by means of blinker light. 

Late in evening we enter a nearby fjord and anchor for the night. We are to drop 

off the fifty wooden barrels of shark livers at Julianehåb that were foisted upon us 

by the Belle Isle on the fourteenth. In return, we are to receive a load of stinking, 

frozen, dog food fish. Also, we are to escort a number of vessels to Julianehåb. 

November 22, Sunday; Unidentified fjord. 

We now have been ordered to await the freighters Brooklyn Heights and Ozark, 

but they do not appear. Instead, the USCG Cutter Modoc appears, escorting a 

rusting, nondescript freighter. We enter fjord early enough for Clark to create a 

super magnificent turkey dinner with all the compatible wrappings. 

After chow, out of fjord to once again await the arrival of ghost ships. It’s God-amighty-damn 

rough!! Despite this, Talledo and I fish for cod. He latches onto a 

giant catfish that scares hell out of me with it’s wide, laughing mouth and snakelike 

whiskers. I catch a good-sized cod and as soon as I remove it from the hook, 

Quick snatches it from me and disappears somewhere on deck. 

We re-enter fjord for the night. 

November 23, Monday; Julianehåb fjord. 

Again out to sea, searching for the elusive Brooklyn Heights and Ozark that do 

not appear. 

Petrenko continues his fight against the world. He and Dreams have a snarling 

match. Of course Connors must eventually back off, but then, most of the crew 

have, at one time or another, had to do the same 

145

Talledo and I get along very nicely these days and I am glad. Robbins is more 

moody than ever before. He talks aloud to himself quite often. I dislike 

mentioning homesickness because it covers the Nanok like a fog. 

Into Julianehåb fjord and drop hook. 

November 24, Tuesday; Julianehåb. 

Leaving the fjord we scan the horizon. If any ships are out there, they are 

invisible. Re-entering the fjord we go all the way to Julianehåb, which, 

surprisingly, is not very far, arriving approximately 2 p.m. 

Not seeing the place since the fifth of September, it is like a homecoming. In 

offloading the wooden barrels of shark livers, I operate the starboard boom to 

hoist them out of our deep cargo hold. The lift line is fouled around the slowly 

turning winch-drum. I have to quick-yank it free before it becomes hopelessly 

entangled. Yanking the line free causes a sudden, short drop of the barrel that 

was high above Nanok’s main deck. The barrel tumbled out of it’s chain sling, 

falls to the bottom of the hold, and breaks into many pieces. Shark livers, like 

giant anchovies, go slithering all over the place as though they were alive! 

Stench rises to the high heavens. Some men gag but I vomit. Jonesy and Stan 

shovel the giant, sickly gray anchovies into large garbage cans. Stomachs quiver 

all day. It is said that shark liver oil is many times more beneficial than cod liver 

oil. I prefer to perish before consuming either. 

Lindsay Jordan, Vacar, Dexter, and Charlie Rollston are coming less and less 

often to chit-chat in the forecastle. Roach says he hopes they all stay aft. By the 

same token, few, if any of the forecastle gang bother to visit aft unless it is 

necessary to do so. We seem to be growing worlds apart, separated by invisible 

emotional barriers. 

At one time or another, minor conflicts have taken place between every two 

members of the crew. I was not present to witness every happenstance, [but] it is 

just obvious by looking at eyes and listening to tiny snatches of conversations 

between one another. Conversations lack spirit and substance. Everything we 

know to say has been said again and again and has become boring. In Jenner’s 

face and tight smile it is apparent many inner thoughts plague him. Perhaps he 

has mailed his spirit home. I know I have sent mine some time ago. 

Jenner is a very strong person both physically and mentally. Therefore he is my 

comparison gauge. Whatever he seems to be feeling, I feel justified in feeling 

similarly. 

146

November 25, Wednesday; Julianehåb. 

John Goncalves, "Balboa" of the black gang, bears a grudge against the Eskimos 

in general. They have overcharged him, traded inferior items and have even 

taken payment for goods never delivered. Balboa is determined to "get even." 

A number of Eskimos paddle their kayaks out to the Nanok at anchor to trade. 

Balboa begins to dicker with one of the natives. He is attempting to trade a 

highly-polished pair of army shoes for a bundle of exquisitely carved, bone 

trinkets. There is much heat in the bargaining process. Johnny demonstrates a 

marked improvement in his ability to bargain. He is gaining on the Eskimo. The 

native is obviously desperate to acquire the shining shoes with the new laces. 

A deal has been struck! 

Goncalves gets a firm hold on the trinkets before relinquishing his vise-like hold 

on the shoes. The moment exchange has been made, Goncalves quickly 

disappears below deck. 

The Eskimo affectionately fondles and closely examines his newly-gotten 

treasure. He grins broadly, turns the shoes upside down, and bellows like a sick 

seal! 

Voila! There is a hole the size of a half dollar in each of the shoe soles! As a cry 

of anguish pierces the air, I too disappear below deck. 

Later, Maggie has the hook lifted and heads the Nanok toward the open sea and 

BW 1. The swindled Eskimo circles round and round the Nanok in his kayak. He 

is wailing to beat hell! The Nanok almost runs over him several times. Maggie is 

mad as hell at the Eskimo and shouts something at him in Norwegian. The 

Eskimo shakes a violent fist at the skipper and holds up the pair of holey shoes 

for the old man to see. Thank goodness the skipper does not understand. 

Hours later we arrive at BW 1. The base is a riot of activity. The Nanok receives 

much mail. In addition, I receive three pay checks: $95.76, $3.03, and $14.07. I 

have no way of knowing whether the payments are right or wrong or what they 

are supposed to represent. There is no complaint department in Greenland. One 

letter states sister Joann has moved into her brand new $5,200.00 home 

(expensive!), and Lucille misses me as much as I miss her. 

Trawler Arluk is here and guess what? Old boot camp buddy "Sick, Lame, and 

Ivy" is on board! He is a sight for lonely old eyes! In Algiers, Louisiana, boot 

camp, for morning hospital call, we were required to stand at attention while our 

company "V" commander Armstrong would shout: "sick, lame, and lazy ... fall 

out" for hospital. Ivy had some medical problem every single day and was ever in 

need of some minor medical attention, from heel blisters to nostril infections. It 

147

got so that Commander Armstrong changed his morning call to: "sick, lame, and 

Ivy ... fall out!" 

Some take movie liberty ashore. Fairbanks gives me a chocolate bar to stand his 

pilot house watch, so I do, and write letters home. 

November 26, Thursday; BW 1. 

Thanksgiving day! Thanks for what!? That we’re still alive? For strangers out 

there who want to kill us? We have to kill whoever they are first, right? 

Rumor: Rear Admiral Edward Hanson Smith is to come on board for a visit today. 

They say it was he that talked his good friend Magnus Magnusson into taking this 

Greenland duty. 

The east coast of Greenland is the coldest in the Arctic but is the ideal area for 

weather observation outposts. Monday’s weather in Denmark Strait is the North 

Sea’s weather on Wednesday—priceless information for both Allies and enemy. 

Iceberg Smith is at a disadvantage. The most accurate charts available for 

Greenland’s east coast and countless fjords are in Oslo, [Norway], and Germany 

controls Oslo. 

No matter. As U.S. Coast Guard trawlers perform their usual duties, they also 

help correct the existing hand-drawn Eskimo maps. Too, his flagship Northland 

also helps. 

I decide to have some fun with the crew. I hurry down the ladder to the forward 

crew’s quarters and shout: "Attention men, the Admiral has arrived!" I expected 

everyone to snap to attention and salute. I was to laugh fiendishly and inform 

them that I am joking. 

The joke is on me! 

The Admiral, several of his staff, and Maggie, were having coffee at the crew’s 

mess table!! The Admiral looked at me as if I were demented. I believe I am also. 

My face must have resembled a red, portside running light. Being totally 

flustered, I salute awkwardly, poking my thumb into my eye, do an about-face, fly 

up the ladder, and fade away. 

Clark presents a magnificent Thanksgiving dinner. Variety of food is so great I 

cannot sample it all. 

148

I run into Schafer ashore. He looked great and has put on some weight. He 

hopes to transfer on board a large C.G. cutter bound soon for the States. Hope 

he gets his wish. 

Skipper says we may be on the way to the States by the twelfth of December. 

He’s said many such nonsensical things before, but just in case he is right this 

time, I vow to gamble no more so I can be sure to afford train fare home. 

November 27, Friday; BW 1. 

Poker bets are running as high as one hundred dollars per roll. 

Petrenko, Jones, Fairbanks, and I go ashore to see the base dentist for routine 

check-up and cleaning. I have several cavities so I receive an appointment for 

December third for a repair job. 

We later stomp on down to crabby-ass Paymaster Levin for whatever balance of 

pay we may be entitled to. When Pete asked for our pay, Mister Levin’s face 

turned purple as he screamed: "No!!!!!" without giving a reason for his refusal. He 

only said: "tell that damn, dumb skipper of yours to etc., etc., etc., etc." So we 

told our skipper "etc., etc., etc., etc.," as Levin instructed us. Pete and Fairbanks 

embellished Levin’s refusal with a few nasty et ceteras, et ceteras of their own. 

Maggie promises that we will witness Mister Levin’s castration. 

November 28, Saturday; BW 1. 

Washed all my soiled clothing this a.m. in anticipation of possibly heading 

stateside soon. Contrary to the promise I made to myself, I roll a few dice in a 

very small stakes game, and a bit of nickle, dime, and quarter poker. I had five 

bucks to lose and quit, but after a few rolls of the dice, I had twenty or so dollars 

of someone else’s. ‘What the hell!’ I thought, ‘I’m playing with someone else’s 

loot now so why quit!?’ Soon Roach owes me thirty dollars, Pete owes seven, 

and Robbie nine. The only one reluctant to pay off is Robbie. 

A large freighter pulls in to tie up just forward of the Nanok. She flies in too swiftly 

and misses scraping the Nanok’s paint of by 27/32 of an inch! 

Clark goes to dentist at ten a.m. and does not return until eight p.m. As usual, his 

excuses are sensational and as usual Maggie does not believe them. This time 

Maggie restricts Clark from leaving the Nanok ever again until after we arrive 

stateside. 

149

We load the hold with cargo destined for a place called Gamatron, wherever or 

whatever that is. 

November 29, Sunday; BW 1. 

We finish loading food-stuff and other cargo for Gamatron. Everyone is gambling. 

Stan and Rollston are winning heavily. 

Good fried chicken even though Clark is brooding over his loss of shore leave. 

Rusty the dog slipped ashore somehow and has disappeared. Talledo hunts him. 

He wants to keep him permanently. 

November 30, Monday; BW 1. 

We onload portable barracks panels and a large scow-like pontoon, probably for 

use as a floating dock, and shove off for Gamatron. Skipper is too irritated and 

impatient for some reason and does not allow the deck crew time to cat the 

anchor. He has done this several times in the past. It hangs over the side just 

above the water line. Rough waters slam it back and forth against the bow, 

making one hell of a racket inside the fo’c’s’le head! 

Talledo found Rusty late last evening hiding under an upside-down dory ashore. 

In gratitude the dog slides about in the head while busy unloading excrement. I 

can now say with experience that a ship without a guillotine is no place for weakstomach 

dogs. 

December 1942 

Maggie decided both vessels would proceed together in the semi-darkness even 

though visibility was barely marginal. Nature had other plans. Snow soon 

thickens and the Natsek blends into it. To verify the Natsek’s proximity, Maggie 

heaves-to and sounds two long blasts of Nanok’s horn. The only reply is a single 

flash of white light. We wait in hope of additional signals but none are 

forthcoming. The Nanok proceeds slowly, cautiously, and alone. 

150

December 1, Tuesday; Gamatron. 

For cryin’ out loud!! Here it is December and we're still not heading south! What's 

this?? Maggie was about to go ashore alone. At the gunwale he stopped, turned 

around, and with a grin, said, "’ski, come along for the ride." I felt embarrassed 

and thought he was joking, but he was not. Ashore he conferred as to how to 

offload our cargo. Stan had rowed us ashore and rowed us back to the Nanok. 

Maggie talked my leg off but spoke not a word to Stan. Without asking I knew 

Stan’s feelings by the beet-red of his face. I would have felt the same. 

We towed the loaded scow ashore and offloaded it as per instructions, took it 

back to the Nanok, and repeated the chore. Later it was tied alongside and we 

knocked off for chow. The Nanok is backed into a short, dead-end fjord off a 

larger, main fjord. The fjord is surrounded on three sides by mountains that rise 

straight up. The forth side has a small, narrow beach onto which we offload. An 

anchor has been dropped forward of the ship and a line from the stern has been 

taken ashore some seventy feet away. This seems to be quite a common tie-up 

arrangement in short, dead-end fjords. 

It looked like a big blow coming up so Maggie wanted a second stern line tied 

ashore. To do so, we must first shift location of the first line. It had been fouled 

around large rocks by vicious but small waves. There is no end of trouble 

disengaging it. In the end an ax had to be used to chop some of it away. When 

settled, another scow load is off loaded ashore and we knock off for the day. 

I am cold and wet as I relieve Jones on pilot house watch. I was just in time to 

get stuck with depth sounding around the Nanok’s perimeter. I never before had 

occasion to use a lead line but had no difficulty reading the markers as I had 

memorized them in boot camp. I find depth enough to float a battleship. 

December 2, Wednesday; Gamatron. 

Moved last scow of cargo ashore, secured the Nanok and hurried back to BW 1. 

Heading north we pass a trawler and the cutter North Star southbound. The 

Arvek is here from Iceland. We hear the Atak with boot camp buddy Clare Boike 

is frozen-in solid for the winter somewhere far north of us. 

We receive additional pay—all in stacks of one hundred single dollar bills! 

Paymaster Levin grins fiendishly as he tells us that single dollar bills are all he 

has. There is now more cash on board the Nanok than the tub’s value. 

151

I am smitten with melancholia and cannot even stir myself into writing home. I 

don’t want Lucille to feel as bad as me. Even feel like destroying dear diary but 

don’t know how. I can’t burn it in the galley stove, and if I threw it overboard it 

would float too long and someone would surely retrieve it. I search for something 

small and heavy to tie it to and then toss it overboard. While I search, someone 

suggested a game of craps and I put aside my emotions. 

December 3, Thursday; BW 1. 

Surely, if we are to be stateside by Christmas, we should be on our way by now. I 

am deep in gloom but not alone. Many others mention similar feelings to one 

another. 

Crap game continued all night and is still underway. It is a great outlet for pent up 

emotions and steers the mind away from homesickness and loneliness. The 

small amount of recreation and entertainment in Greenland is insufficient. If that 

is the reason why officials mostly ignore the gambling, then they are aware of it’s 

necessary evil. Only Maggie, Dillon, Talledo, and McClay choose not to play 

today. 

Nick Vacar, John Goncalves, Wilbur Owens, Carroll Jenner, Jack Dexter, 

Norman Comer, and Macon Roach were all officially promoted several days ago. 

I am bitterly disappointed but do not say so aloud to anyone. C’est la vie. 

Late rumor: the Nanok and Natsek are to head stateside with cutter Bluebird as 

escort! How can this be possible when neither Natsek nor Bluebird are here and 

no one seems to know their whereabouts!? I gave Mister Dillon another hundred 

and thirty five dollars to lock in the ship’s safe, just in case the rumor has merit. I 

now have a total of two hundred and twenty bucks, more than enough for the 

round trip home. 

Went to dentist late today. Little did I know the dentist is an apprentice. He 

alternates reading a book on dentistry and grinding my cavities. 

Wind is blowing droplets of ice that sting the face. 

Bob Hollingsworth comes on board for a while to chit-chat. Says he is to leave for 

the States on the Dorchester soon. 

The USCG Cutter Mohave arrives. We off load barrels of fuel oil while tied 

alongside the freighter Tintagle. They tell us the trawler Aivik has already gone 

stateside. Away we go to Gamatron, dump the oil, and zip back to BW 1. 

152

Fairbanks makes the observation that December is colder than winter. Everyone 

laughs and he wonders why. It is so damned cold I find it near impossible to 

warm up. I’m reluctant to stand bow watch anymore but have no choice. Ugly 

Nanok goes on and on without complaint. Why doesn’t she collapse? 

I review the months gone by on board the Nanok and conclude this is the way 

things will always be, war without end. In sleep I dream we are to remain in the 

earth’s rectum for the duration. If we are to go anywhere, we must do it soon. Ice 

fields are becoming almost impenetrable and cake ice forms between blinks of 

the eye. More rumors that we will be home for Christmas. I don’t believe a word 

but my heart beats a little faster. Maggie will not confirm or deny. Everything we 

are ordered to do now seems spurred by a secret urgency for speed. No one 

knows why. Suddenly too, there are a multitude of minor tasks to be performed. 

December 4, Friday; BW 1. 

Quickly, quickly, man-jack 

fly, 

Let me see but backside’s 

eye, 

Show your brawn and not 

your brain, 

Ignore snow and driving 

rain. 

Blowing a gale all day. Winds screech through rigging. I hate to leave the comfort 

of the forecastle for any reason. Bets fly heavy on "yes" and "no" on being in 

Boston for Christmas. 

Bad news. We learn that the personable Lieutenant Demorest fell into an 

crevasse on the Ice Cap while on one of the motor sleds we brought here. It 

happened during a bizarre chain of events. A plane flying from Iceland to 

Greenland crashed on the Ice Cap. A second plane, a [Boeing B-17] Flying 

Fortress bomber sent out with other searchers, also crashed in the Comanche 

Bay area. The crew were all injured, one seriously. For nine days they were 

imprisoned in the cabin of the bomber. The radio operator managed to get their 

damaged radio operating well enough to tap out an S.O.S. His message was 

picked up and the plane’s position pinpointed. Help was soon on the way. 

153

A plane from Sondrestrom Fjord located the wreckage and dropped supplies. 

About the same time a party of scientists who were studying Arctic conditions in 

the area dispatched Lieutenant Max H. Demorest on motor sled. Demorest 

actually first reached the plane on foot. When he attempted to bring up the sled, 

he crashed through a thin snow bridge and fell to his death at the bottom of the 

deep crevasse. He was a very fine gentleman we will all miss very much. 

The cutter Northland sent up it’s small amphibian plane under command of 

Lieutenant John H. Pritchard, Jr. He landed safely and managed to carry off two 

of the bomber’s injured men. The following day the weather had worsened. He 

landed again and picked up one man but then crashed in a swirling fog and snow 

squall. The wreckage of his plane was later found but he and his passenger were 

never to be seen again. It is assumed they wandered away and perished in the 

snow. 

In the meantime, a fifth fatality happened during the rescue attempts. While trying 

to reach the coast by motor sled (the second of the two we had taken to 

Greenland), with one of the injured, Private C. Wedel suffered the same fate as 

Lieutenant Demorest. Colonel Bernt Balchen then suggested rescue using a 

large [Consolidated PBY] Catalina flying boat and the navy cooperated. 

Lieutenant B.W. Dunlop in three trips succeeded in rescuing all remaining men. 

December 5, Saturday; BW 1. 

The Nanok’s booms were rigged out in preparation to onload a shithouse-full of 

barrels of fuel for Gamatron again! This was not supposed to be our duty but 

someone higher up changed many plans. 

Had one hell of a chin-fest with Petrenko. I ended up threatening his life. Lucky 

for me the giant always backs down. 

December 6, Sunday; BW 1. 

I’m convinced that the wind and the devil are one and the same. 

Traded a carton of cigarettes for a handful of Danish coins with Toby on board 

the vessel Tintagle. Wanted to see the movie at the army base but decided not to 

face the rotten weather. 

December 7, Monday; Gamatron 

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First anniversary of Pearl Harbor day! This day too shall live in the annals of 

infamy! Onloading ever more drums of fuel oil. Nanok is all but sinking under the 

weight. Robbie says the ship is a blivet, two pounds of crap in a one pound sack. 

The hold is full of drums and the deck is stacked high on every single available 

square yard of space. Loaded, we waddle down the fjord to Gamatron. We 

anchor in total darkness. I’m so tired I can hardly hold my fountain pen. 

I open letters and package received at last minute before leaving BW 1. Sister 

Joann has sent me two single dollar bills. Also received a small carton of hard 

candy from Dodge Brothers work mate Maffie Roman. Good. Letters are infested 

with homesickness worms. It is getting to be more like a plague and has tainted 

every long-term Greenland vessel. Must be an epidemic! 

December 8, Tuesday; Gamatron. 

Gamatron’s base commander estimates it will take at least a week to offload our 

cargo. Maggie says if it takes that long we will miss whatever opportunity 

remaining to return stateside before a solid freeze-in. 

As in the past, the Nanok backed into the short, dead-end fjord. Mooring lines 

were taken ashore and secured. One from each side of the bow and the same 

from the stern. The Nanok holds steadily in mid-fjord as if in the center of a 

spider web. 

The small scow is no longer here. It has been taken away by some other vessel 

for use elsewhere. Our offloading problem is therefore increased. I suggest to the 

skipper a wild idea for offloading the drums. As I explain, his face turns from an 

"OK, tell me" look to a purple faced "you stupid ass!" look. By the time I finished, 

he wore a "that’s not too dumb an idea" look. As I began telling my plan, my mind 

started with a "why didn’t I keep my stupid mouth shut!?" then I continued with 

"there goes my last chance for a coxswain’s rating!" then on to "he may at least 

spare my life." 

Since the Nanok was already spread-eagled in the fjord’s center, why not anchor 

a single block (pulley) ashore and another on board the Nanok. Then reeve a 

sort of continuous clothes-line loop through block on ship and through block 

ashore. Much like a tenement house clothes-drying line from one building to 

another. It is well known that drums of fuel are light in the water and will therefore 

float. Why not lash the drums several feet apart, onto the continuous clothes line, 

using short, thin-line pieces of rope? 

I could see somewhere inside Maggie’s eyes that he might go for the idea and he 

did so. To my surprise, the idea worked like a charm! We tied and individually 

lowered the drums over the ship’s side and into the water, pulled on the loop of 

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clothes line and shuttled the drums ashore. Ashore the drums are untied and the 

short lines are retied to the clothes line for a return trip to the Nanok for reuse. 

Most of the crew work ashore. Someone there spawns a similar good idea. 

Instead of wrestling each individual drum up the high, snow- and ice-sided hill, a 

large, hand operated winch is anchored at the top of the hill. From the winch’s 

spool they unwind a pencil-thin cable and lead it down hill to the water’s edge. As 

each drum reaches shore, it is untied from the clothes line and onto the cable’s 

end. Hand-turning the winch-crank, the drums are swiftly pulled uphill, untied, 

and rolled away. The end of the cable is coiled and tossed back down to the 

beach for reuse. We work swiftly all day and a good part of the night using a 

minimum of lighting. Two hundred and forty drums are ashore; sixty more to go. 

The base commander comes on board and praises captain Maggie for the feat in 

my presence. Maggie’s face appears very pink. He tells the commander that the 

clothes line was my idea. This gets me a strong handshake and a profuse 

compliment. 

"What’s your rating son?" the commander asks. I tell him that I am a Seaman 1/c. 

He is quite surprised and chides Maggie about my low rating. It is embarrassing 

to me as well as to the skipper. I must admit I felt a warm feeling somewhere 

deep in my gut. 

December 9, Wednesday; BW 1. 

I go ashore to pull juke suit duty. In jig-time we offload the remaining sixty drums 

and return to BW 1. 

Oscar Dillon went ashore for our pay records and whatever mail that arrived. This 

is interpreted to mean that the Nanok is to leave the Greenland area shortly. Not 

necessarily for the States, but surely somewhere south. Ice conditions will render 

the Nanok useless here soon. 

Thirty to fifty drums of diesel oil come on board. Thirty are stowed in the hold for 

ballast. Twenty are lashed with cable on deck. Grapevine has it that the fuel is to 

guarantee a non-stop trip to Boston. 

Neither the Natsek nor Bluebird appear but our fresh water tanks have been 

topped off. If we are to indeed reach Boston before freezing in solid for the 

winter, then, damn it boy!, we had better get our collective asses in gear soon!! 

Ice is forming before one’s eyes! It is ever more threatening. 

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December 10, Thursday; BW 1. 

We have given the Nanok a sponge bath and dusted her entrails. She is as fresh 

as a southern breeze. The old tub needed a lesson in personal hygiene. 

Roach and I were sent ashore for some paper work. On the way we run into one 

of my old Sea Cloud shipmates. He claims the Cloud has been credited with the 

sinking of a submarine. I doubt it. I told him the Nanok would never be cited for 

anything but her garbage-dumping or for sinking a few kayaks. 

Clark is pissed-off at me for failing to light his galley stove early in the a.m. 

Bought a box of cigars. Can’t understand why we can now purchase all of the PX 

crap we care to. 

December 11, Friday; BW 1. 

No Natsek! No Bluebird! Skipper orders all rigging to be stripped from the lower 

falls of the booms. The uppers are left in place. I feel all boom rigging should 

remain in place just in case it would be needed to lift dorys over the side in an 

emergency. Ah! The answer comes. Maggie orders both booms to be restrung 

with newer, less worn rope. As soon as we finish, the Nanok is ordered to 

transfer two giant lumps of molded concrete from one small vessel to another. 

Who in hell do you suppose ordered such lumps of concrete, and for what 

possible use!? I was so tired my pooper stuck out far enough to slice washers off 

it. What a life! I’m froze to death! Almost. 

December 12, Saturday; BW 1. 

Hah! 

The Natsek has arrived. The Bluebird is expected tomorrow. Deck is secured for 

sea once again. New lashings were made up to secure lifeboat dorys in their 

deck cradles. 

Received much mail today. I am sure it has been more than a month since I have 

written home. Damned if I know why. Don’t know what to write about. Lucille 

must be worried sick. 

Not too sure I care to leave for the States at this time. The last two nights in 

succession I have had nightmares about drowning in a juke suit. 

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We visit on board the Natsek and yak-yak for quite some time. Natsek crew is 

electrified at the possibility of getting home for Christmas. Her skipper, Lieutenant 

(j.g.) Thomas S. La Farge teases that the rumors are just that, nothing more. 

Skipper Tom is said to be closely related to John La Farge, the world famous 

artist known for his sensational murals. 

A stranger comes on board late in the day. He gives each of us a sack of candy 

and four packs of gum. He gives me the creeps with his never smiling sad look. 

Said he is army but he is dressed civilian. No one seems to know who he is or 

why he came on board. Robbie decides to question him but he is gone. 

December 13, Sunday; BW 1 

Awake to a special surprise! The Bluebird is here! At last! 

The Tintagle moved from dockside so the Nanok can move in to refuel and retop 

our fresh water once again. The Natsek replenished next. 

Captain Magnusson breaks the news! We are going home!! He wanted to shove 

off today but the powers that be said "nix." We are to leave in the a.m. tomorrow. 

Maggie estimates the trip will take nine days, thirteen hours, and 

thirty-six minutes before we either drop the hook or have one of our mooring lines 

hit shore. Others estimate lesser and greater amounts of time and each 

contributes to what is called the "anchor pool." Whoever estimates closest to the 

actual time becomes winner of the pool. On battleships, anchor pools amount to 

thousands of dollars. 

Talledo says Maggie, La Farge and Lt. Commander James F. Baldwin, USNR, 

have met and decided our three vessels would travel in a column. Since the 

Bluebird’s skipper is senior officer, and probably because the Bird is the largest 

and best-armed vessel, she will lead our miniature flotilla. 

The crew is alive once again! Everyone is in the highest of spirits. It is as cold as 

setting on a cake of ice with a bare ass but it does not cool our spirits. No one 

cares to argue about anything. Things are nauseatingly peaceful. I thought I saw 

Petrenko sneering, but he was really smiling. We have shed loneliness as one 

sheds a frayed garment. A half dozen of us have a community sing-along. We 

sound like meadowlarks. 

December 14, Monday; At sea. 

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I awaken very early. Not because of excitement, but because of another 

nightmare about drowning in a juke suit. I was bathed in cold perspiration. I feel 

uneasy that our voyage may not go well. 

Robbie slaps my back as he rarely does. "Cheer up, ’ski!" he says, "we’re going 

home buddy! Home!!" I choose not to dampen his spirits with my stupid 

nightmare. 

Bluebird and Natsek left earlier this a.m. We had to wait (impatiently) for several 

passengers to board, and for mail remnants to arrive. 

Cast off!! We are on our way! So-long BW 1, Narssarssuaq, on Skovfjord! 

Part way down the fjord we come across the Bluebird, North Star, and Natsek. 

They are hove-to and conducting some sort of business. I expect the Nanok to 

heave-to and await outcome of Bluebird’s business, praying it would not be 

orders to return to BW 1 and further work duty. If we were to return to BW 1 at 

this date a stateside trip would be impossible this year because of the now 

constant heavy weather and great iceberg masses in motion. 

We delay one half hour and receive one more passenger, a young army 

weatherman. We lucked out! The Bird did not require the Nanok to wait for her so 

Nanok and Natsek head for the open sea. Either the Bird will catch up to us or 

we will proceed to Boston without her. In either case, who gives a rat’s ass?! 

We push through miles of icebergs of all sizes. Some look like large, white and 

blue islands. Our travel is very slow and arduous. Nanok’s bow is gently eased 

against one giant iceberg after another. Push, push, push, and ever so slowly the 

monsters move aside for the Nanok to pass. One berg replaces the other, ever 

larger and more towering and threatening. Fortunately the seas are flat calm. 

Winds are in hiding, ready to pounce at their discretion. 

Almost at the moment we enter open sea, a great ground swell develops and 

wind makes it’s hiding place known. It bites the cheeks, gently at the beginning, 

then intensifying like an arousing lover. Near day’s end, swells become 

monumental. Waves and wind become unbridled fury. 

It occurred to me that had the ground swell began while we were still amidst the 

icebergs, they would have become giant grinding blocks that surely would have 

reduced both vessels to pulp. 

I experienced mixed emotions. The ominous rolling of iceberg fields had me 

wishing we had been unable to penetrate their density. We would then have 

returned to the safety of BW 1’s bosom. On the other hand, I would feel totally 

crushed not to be able to leave Greenland’s frozen hell-hole before the spring of 

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1943, perhaps not even then. Having successfully penetrated the ice fields, it 

would be totally impossible to return through them. For better or worse, we are 

on our way home. Lord willing, we will get there safely. The Natsek is nearby and 

rides the heavy seas nicely. All is well. 

Bluebird has not yet made an appearance. Snow is falling and visibility 

decreases. For all we know our escort vessel may well be nearby. We cannot 

check by radio because of the imposed silence we are ordered to maintain. 

December 15, Tuesday; At sea. 

Sea and wind are very high and rough. Snow falls intermittently. Looking in any 

direction, the view is similar, either boiling mountains of water or white walls of 

falling snow. 

The young army weatherman is uncanny. He is able to accurately predict 

weather changes hour by hour. His predictions anger Stan and Fairbanks and 

some of the Black Gang crew. Whenever we experience somewhat of a weather 

calming, he delights in stating the condition is only temporary. And he is always 

correct! 

There is an area some twelve foot square on the portside forecastle that is 

leaking seawater into the forward bilges. The forecastle was damaged 

September seventh, when we collided with the corner of the scow in tow. Chips 

had patched the damage quite well, but after much sea and iceberg beating the 

patch is losing integrity. Our two bilge pumps are used alternately so as not to 

damage them, but we are barely able to keep pace with the incoming water. 

Accumulated water in the forward bilges causes the Nanok’s bow to assume a 

permanent downward dip. This makes steering more difficult than usual. We of 

the forecastle may be forced to sleep in the engine room if the dip worsens. 

Sleeping up forward would be dangerous if we should have to abandon ship. It 

could prove impossible to exit the forecastle hatch. Captain Magnusson has 

given permission to sleep aft whenever we choose to. We would have to sleep in 

bunks of others while they were on watch, or curl up on the engine room’s steel 

deck. 

Ice accumulates and thickens on the forward, starboard, weather side and the 

Nanok lists heavily to starboard. 

I am not knowledgeable about the dangers of heavy icing conditions. Maggie 

shows no visible concern so it must not be too worrisome. Chief Talledo, on the 

other hand, displays some anxiety. There is definitely an unspoken fear in the 

eyes of much of the crew. I too begin to feel something stirring uneasily inside of 

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me. We no longer dwell upon the fancy foods we had been longing for. Instead 

we speak of wives and sweethearts and family. 

On board the Nanok, ice chopping is continuous around the clock. On board the 

Natsek on our port beam, there is no visible ice chopping. I am encouraged by 

the apparent strength of the Nanok. Her heart never throbbed so rhythmically 

before, faster too. She wants to fly. She seems to be in good humor and 

giddyantics. The Nanok does not feel quite so clumsy anymore. I find myself 

beginning to enjoy her company. She is still an ugly duckling, true, but she does 

demonstrate spunk and determination. Admirable tributes for a brow-beaten lady. 

Do I imagine it, or does the wind continue to increase in velocity? I am sure it is 

growing ever colder. My teeth chatter uncontrollably as I chop ice away. I am 

sneezing, my eyes burn, and I am catching a cold, dammit! Many of the others 

have colds. I find it difficult to relax. The ship pitches and rolls heavily. This must 

be the reason for my uneasyness; a blasted cold! 

December 16, Wednesday; At sea. 

Is it morning or is it night? Have I slept some or do I imagine it? My body does 

not feel rested. There is an odor of coffee. Clark is more than a genius in 

providing it. It must be morning. Forecastle noises are loud. 

I heard the wind even before going topside. The deck is a wonderland of wet, 

packed snow, and ice. The Nanok carries almost twice the ice she carried 

yesterday. It clings mostly to her forward half and to it’s entire starboard side. 

Talledo, per skipper’s orders, has instructed the crew to continue chopping away 

the ice formation in period lengths of two hours off instead of the usual four hours 

on and eight hours off. Since heavy seas and rolling vessel did not permit more 

than short snatches of fitful sleep, it is just as well to continue chopping as long 

as one is awake. 

The Nanok reminds me of a puppy dog sliding forward on his chin and chest. 

Giant waves assault the bow and explode into expanding curtains of shimmering, 

sparkling globules of mercury. Airborne firecrackers on the Fourth of July. 

There is very little ice chopping equipment on board. We have two fire axes, 

paint-chipping hammers, a meat cleaver, butcher knives, and a number of marlin 

spikes. One wonders why we haven’t a crate full of axes and hatchets. Men are 

at work chopping everywhere. 

The skipper has owned and operated many fishing trawlers for more years than I 

have been in existence. He must know all there is to learn about North Atlantic 

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icing conditions. Today there is a seriousness in his white-rimmed eyes that I 

have never seen before. Lines around his mouth are drawn tight. I don’t imagine 

this because Lindsay and Dexter share my observation. I hope Maggie does not 

know something that the three of us do not. 

Maggie has not mentioned our escort Bluebird. When Talledo mentioned the 

name to Maggie, the skipper snarled and hissed: "piss on the bastards! Piss on 

’em!!" 

The skipper’s attitude does not suggest any difficulty the Bluebird might be 

having. My personal feelings are that the Bird can go straight to hell and forget 

about the Nanok and Natsek. I have much more confidence in Maggie’s 

seamanship know-how than that of the Bird’s skipper. At any rate, no escort 

vessel of any size could successfully execute a rescue in these violent seas 

should we find it necessary to abandon ship. As matter of fact, it would be 

impossible to abandon ship. The lifeboat dorys lie frozen beneath thick ice. So is 

the large, rigid cork-bodied life raft frozen to the pilot house portside. All an escort 

vessel’s crew could do is to wave goodbye as we plunge into Davy Jones’s 

coffin. I hear Talledo tell Maggie that the aft superstructure is no longer watertight 

... whatever that means. 

It is near impossible to stand upright even with legs spread wide. Many are 

seasick, but not Sullivan Jones. Davy’s wide grin is very reassuring to me. His 

years of sailing [around] Martha’s Vineyard has conditioned him. He should 

already be ranked coxswain. Abe Brill is too seasick to stand watch. He tries hard 

but sailing is not his forte and never will be. Stan has periods of total unconcern. 

He can sit, stand, lie on his back, or stand on his head, and still manage to read 

comic books. 

Clark has an awful time at the galley stove. That old seahorse will never give up. 

He battens down his damn pots and pans and goes on cooking. 

The cannon and two, twenty millimeter anti-aircraft guns on the forecastle’s head 

are frozen under mounds of ice. They are of less use than sling shots. 

More problems! 

The Nanok, down at the bow and with a frightening starboard tilt, causes fuel oil 

to escape from the ship’s boiler and starts a fire aft! The Black Gang: McClay, 

Vacar, Petrenko, and others, luckily extinguish the blaze before it has opportunity 

to seep flaming oil into the Nanok’s bilges. It is touch-and-go for a frightening 

eternity. If it remains unsafe to relight the boiler while the Nanok remains tilted, 

there will be no heat from now on. 

From the sky both Natsek and Nanok must appear as two cockroaches scaling 

mountain peaks and skiing down the opposite sides. 

162

Clark appears wretched. His color is that of dirty snow. Stan, Jones, and Delaney 

are soaked through to the goose pimples. I fair somewhat better. 

Did I stand watch or not? I am too tired to remember. Perhaps I should have 

mailed some letters home before leaving BW 1. My arms and legs are cramping 

from chopping ice. My throat is sore and my left ear is infected. I have either 

contracted a cold or have the flu. A number of the crew are having similar 

problems. 

The Natsek is riding heavily and deep in the sea. She is still abeam of our 

portside, beyond shouting distance. If anyone on board her is chopping ice, they 

are not visible. La Farge may believe the weather will clear and ice will melt. 

Natsek is supposed to lead the Nanok because Nanok’s fathometer is not 

operable. Natsek wears a blanket of white much like her sister. 

There is no let-up on ice chopping. Talledo should not work so hard. He sets an 

impossible example for the crew to follow. As nightfall approaches, I notice ice 

accumulation has kept pace with ice removal efforts. 

Delaney and I each have a half bowl of stew. We wedge our asses in between 

lockers in the forecastle head. It is the only way to maintain stability enough to 

avoid missing the mouth with a spoon. It is like dinner on a roller coaster. 

Dear diary is to be transferred and hidden in rear of Comer’s filing cabinet aft 

because I plan not to sleep forward again until the danger of capsizing is 

diminished. 

Chief Talledo finds me putting the diary away and becomes furious when he 

learns what it is. He had asked me what the book is and I told him. Why should I 

not!? Like old times, Talledo screams at me! 

"Do you know you could be dishonorably discharged for keeping a diary!?" 

"No! Why!?" I scream back at him. "It’s just a journal of our experiences in 

Greenland!" 

"Yes! God damn you, and if we were to be taken by the enemy, it would tell them 

everything they might want to know about locations and the activities of our army 

and navy in all of Greenland you dumb ass!" 

His truth strikes me as lightning might! Yes! Of course, he is right! At that 

moment I could not recall any specifics that could be of value to the enemy, but I 

felt sure there were many. A recollection ran through my mind. Everywhere in 

Boston there were posted placards that read: ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships.’ At the time 

I thought such slogans were silly and of no importance. Now, I instantly realized 

their great importance. 

163

The chief raved on and I handed him the diary with shaking hand. He snatched it 

from me and was about to tear it to pieces but stopped short. 

"Didn’t Mister Dicastro take away your camera a long time ago and lock it in the 

ship’s safe ?! Or do you still have it?" 

"No sir," I reply. "We were told that we were not allowed to have or use cameras 

until the war’s end." 

"Why do you suppose he did that!?" asks Talledo. 

"Because, we were not allowed to photograph any army or navy or weather base, 

equipment, machinery, ships or planes," I reply. 

Talledo is calming down. His face turned from deep purple to pink. 

"Of course," he said, "so that the pictures would not fall into enemy hands. 

Weren’t you told to surrender all diaries?" 

"No sir," I reply truthfully. "We were not!" 

I now realized the seriousness of keeping a diary during wartime ... too late! 

"There goes my coxswain’s rating," I say dejectedly. 

"Yeah," says Talledo, "and maybe your ass in the brig for a few years, too!" 

"Oh my God, NO!" 

"Yeah, ya damn betcha!" says Talledo. 

He is silent for a few moments, studying my fearful face. 

"Look," he said, "as soon as we get to Boston, get rid of that damn thing. I want 

you to take it home and stash it somewhere. Don’t show it to anyone until the 

damn war is history! Don’t bring it back! Understand?!" 

I was shocked! He shoved the diary back into my hands. 

Talledo turned and left. Over his shoulder he said: "I never saw it! You get me?" I 

couldn't reply. He was gone. 

My first reaction was to destroy the diary page by page, but I did not. I wondered 

why he gave it back to me. The only rationale I could come up with, was that he 

did not have the heart to see me punished. Or possibly more important, he did 

not want me to fail being promoted. When we first became friendly, I had 

164

confided in him that if I could prove to myself that I was capable of climbing up 

the rating ladder, I would strongly consider making the Coast Guard my career 

Whatever his reason, I was grateful. 

No one, not even my closest buddies knew of the diary’s existence. I always 

made my entrees into it sometimes at two or three day intervals while lying on my 

side in my sack so no one would notice. If they had, they may have thought I was 

writing letters. Whenever I finished an entry, I slid the diary between my two, thin 

mattresses. I kept it’s existence secret not because I knew it was prohibited 

(which I did not know), but because I knew my shipmates would poke fun at it 

and embarrass me. Too, I wanted no one to peek into it when I was not around. I 

kept the damned thing simply because I felt my wife and family might enjoy 

reading it one day. I purchased it from the Coast Guard small stores at the 

Algiers, Louisiana, boot camp. Why in hell were they selling them? I wondered 

how many other swab jockeys purchased them. I knew buddy Clare Boike had 

one. 

As soon as I reach Boston I will mail the book home. Or, if I am fortunate enough 

to get a leave of absence, I will carry it home. I tire of keeping it anyway. 

With the Nanok pitching and tossing, I find it difficult to lie still in my sack. I have 

changed into dry clothing and try to have a restful sleep. The day has been too 

eventful to allow me to rest. 

December 17, Thursday; At sea. 

At approximately 0100 this morning the Belle Isle Strait light was sighted. The 

strait is a narrow body of water that connects the Gulf of Saint Lawrence to the 

Labrador Sea, and separates the great island of Newfoundland from the 

mainland. Our course is southbound through the strait. 

At approximately 0215 snow begins to fall and obscures the light. 

Later we close-haul the Natsek so Maggie and La Farge can shout back and 

forth to one another. Not being on the scene at the time, I do not learn the true 

state of Natsek’s icing condition. Others, however, say Natsek is an iceberg. 

Maggie decided both vessels would proceed together in the semi-darkness even 

though visibility was barely marginal. Nature had other plans. Snow soon 

thickens and the Natsek blends into it. To verify the Natsek’s proximity, Maggie 

heaves-to and sounds two long blasts of Nanok’s horn. The only reply is a single 

flash of white light. We wait in hope of additional signals but none are 

forthcoming. The Nanok proceeds slowly, cautiously, and alone. 

165

I arrive at the wheel at 0400 and learn all that transpired during the night as 

Mister Dillon and the skipper discuss the events. From the tone of their voices, I 

grow apprehensive and fearful of a disaster in the making, or of a disaster that 

may have already taken place. 

We lay-to until approximately 0645. When Captain Magnusson is satisfied with 

his calculation of our position, and that the Natsek is beyond communicative 

distance, he gives orders to get underway again. We proceed into the Belle Isle 

Strait. There is much conjecture in the pilot house regarding the situation. Was 

the flash of light a flare? It was doubted because of it’s short duration. 

Could it have been an explosion? Hardly, no sound. Could it possibly have been 

a blinker light? Possibly, but if so, more should have followed. I began to wonder 

if a light had been sighted at all. But it must have been, a number of others 

claimed to have seen it. 

My fear grows that all is not well. It is inconceivable that an enemy surface craft 

or submarine could be active in these waters and, if they were, the constantly 

ragged seas would not allow them to board and capture. What then, is amiss!? 

My flesh prickled beneath damp clothing. Is it possible that the flash of white 

signaled the death of a wooden shoe? 

If others were experiencing fear for the safety of the Natsek crew as I, it is indeed 

evident. As for the skipper, I know him well enough to know when he is deeply 

concerned as he is now. He shuffles back and forth, peering often into the dark 

mist through binoculars. He mutters much in Norwegian, punctuated with an 

occasional, choice American cuss word. When this stanchion of a man is moved 

enough to demonstrate such concern, it is time to be fearful. 

Nature has provided us with much Arctic phenomenon. She now displays 

another. We are supposedly abeam of Point Amour light. We again heave-to. 

Skipper does not explain why. Weather is momentarily calm. No wind, no waves, 

and very little ground swell. Fog has settled close on the water. It lies but three to 

six feet in height. It is possible to see across the top of it. As far as the eye can 

see the ocean surface is frosted. A witch’s wand gently stirs the frosting into slow 

motion. It twists ever so slowly and rises into a field of small, thin pinnacles of 

white that retain their shape. To Jonesy and Robbins it all appears to be an early 

morning cemetery scene from a horror movie. The graveyard is strewn with 

tombstone-like pinnacles protruding upward through a graveyard mist that is 

hugging the earth and the bodies below. One can almost hear strains of The 

Sorcerer’s Apprentice. 

The mist thins out and soon it is gone. 

There is a groan from the engine room and our rusted giant springs to life. We 

are underway once again. 

166

Wind begins to sigh-in from the west. In slightly over an hour it reaches gale 

force. It is a banshee that has gotten it’s second breath. The Nanok bows it’s 

nose. 

Maggie is most concerned that I keep the Nanok’s bow pointing head-on into the 

wind. Therefore, in order to head toward Boston to the south, I must aim the 

Nanok’s bow southwest. In a sense, we are traveling sidewise toward Bean City. 

Should the Nanok’s bow be turned directly south, great west winds and sea 

would strike the vessel on her heavily ice-laden starboard side and possibly 

cause her to capsize. 

For the most part I was quite successful. Whenever a large wave struck even 

slightly starboard, I automatically turned the large wheel as far right as possible 

so as to compensate for any misalignment caused by such waves. 

At 0800 no one came to relieve me. I didn’t ask why. I was content to fight the 

wheel rather than be on deck soaking up sea water and chopping ice. The pilot 

house is covered with ice at least six feet thick. Somehow the skipper has 

managed to drop open a shutter just to the right of my wheel-tending position and 

just a few feet to the front of me. In the beginning, ice formed across the entire 

pilot house front. After a period of time, the warmth inside the pilot house melted 

the ice that was on it’s surface. This is what made it possible for Maggie to drop 

open the shutter. 

With the shutter out of the way, he still faced a solid wall of ice. He used his toilet 

plunger to punch-open a one foot diameter hole through the ice. As the ice 

thickened, he used a boat hook to keep punching open the hole. Through the 

hole, Maggie had a limited view of the forecastle and the men chopping ice off it. 

Whenever I chose to, and the skipper was not in front of me, I was able to peek 

through the tunnel too. I chose not to do this often. Airborne waves often fly into 

the pilot house through the tunnel and strike my chest and face. Ice would form 

on my brow and eye lashes. Removing it tore away both the brow and some 

lashes. 

The pilot house is a mountain of ice. Inside visibility is minimal. The only light 

filters in through the ice and the portside hatch glass. 

At 1400 hours there is still no relief. I am very cold and experiencing chills. I 

would ask for relief but fear Maggie might consider it a seamanship shortcoming 

which I cannot chance. Getting a rating has indeed become an obsession with 

me. Too bad I was stupid enough to tell Lucille I already had the rating. I have 

grown so tired of trying to please Maggie, Dillon, and Talledo that I would like to 

tell them to cram the rating up their respective asses. I cannot afford the 

privilege. Too much at stake. 

167

Quite suddenly I feel the starboard bow being struck by a quick succession of 

three large waves. I instantly turn the wheel full right to compensate for the 

blows. The compass shows a swift movement southward. 

Another hard blow! 

Bow of the Nanok turns ever more southward, exposing her ice-laden starboard 

to the smashing waves 

"Full right wheel!" Maggie shouts at me. 

"Full right, sir," I respond. 

I had the wheel full right already, but try to turn it even more. Many more great 

waves strike the starboard. The vessel began rolling Ever more. 

"Full right! Full right, God damn it!" the skipper screams. 

"She is full right!" I yell back. 

Each wave slides the Nanok evermore southward and rolls her more and more 

onto her starboard side. The deck tilts. My legs slide out from under me and I fall 

to the deck on my left side. Maggie is now standing with one foot on what had 

been the starboard bulkhead and one foot on the deck. He reaches, grasps, and 

pulls at one spoke of my wheel. 

Now I am on my back, partially under the great wheel, pushing up on it’s spokes. 

The Nanok is at an impossible angle, down at the bow and almost lying on her 

starboard side. Because of the angle and giant wave combinations, flying wavetops 

spray into the smoke stack! The diesel engine falters, then dies completely! 

"There she goes!" yells the skipper. I too feel we are capsizing. 

More great waves strike the ship mercilessly. We are wallowing hopelessly. 

Maggie grabs the handle of the ship’s telegraph and signals full speed ahead to 

the engine room. For an eternity there is no response! (We were to learn later 

that as the Nanok wallowed, solid green waves of water cascaded down the 

stern ladder, through the Black Gang’s companionway and on into the engine 

room. Most of the Black Gang believed the Nanok was sliding beneath the sea 

and were trying to fight their impossible way up through the heavy water and up, 

onto the deck.) 

All had left the engine room with the exception of Petrenko. As tall as he is, salt 

water had risen to his waist by the time he received Maggie’s order for full speed 

ahead. Pete stood his post and blasted air into the diesel until she quit coughing 

168

and finally fired. Accidentally or on purpose he raced the engine so fast it felt as if 

the ship would tear into pieces. 

In the pilot house the skipper and I were ecstatic! Nothing on earth could sound 

as beautiful as that racing diesel engine! 

Wallowing as she was, the Nanok often found herself atop a large wave with both 

her bow and stern out of water. Whenever this was so, the propeller, without 

resistance, was free to gather sudden speed and scream like a stuck hog running 

amok. The entire ship would tremble and vibrate horribly! It seemed like five 

minutes before the prop would take hold again and bite into solid water, even 

much longer before the vessel began to move foreword once again, and still 

longer before she began to turn right, face the wind head-on, and right herself. 

I was on my feet once more. Only now did I fully realize the danger we had been 

in. I don’t believe it was fear I felt but I had never experienced the same 

sensation before. At first my legs felt a weakness in them and I was unable to 

hold my body still and steady. My knees wobbled a bit and I looked down at 

them. They wobbled more and more until they reminded me of someone doing 

the old Charleston dance. Knees were swinging swiftly inward and outward. This 

struck me as being very funny and I began to laugh aloud. The captain stared at 

me with a strange look in his eyes. He probably thought I had gone out of my 

mind. The expression on his face caused me to laugh even louder as my knees 

wobbled out of control. Try as I would, I was unable to stop them. A few select 

cuss words from Maggie brought me back to earth. I sobered and my knees 

stopped flapping. 

I felt a severe chill and needed to urinate as I had so many times this day. As 

usual, Maggie took over the wheel long enough for me to use the head inside 

Maggie’s quarters just behind and adjacent to the pilot house. Then the captain 

hurried into his quarters to do his business. When he returned, he brought with 

him two cans of beer. He popped one open, gave it to me, and told me to "hurry 

up and drink some." 

I was happy to cooperate. When I had removed a couple of gulps, he replaced 

them with a large slug of dry gin. I could not steer with only one free hand while 

drinking, so the skipper assisted me. He stood to the right of the wheel and 

grabbed hold of one of the spokes with his left hand as he downed his beer with 

the other. 

Talledo fought his way up the port side and into the pilot house. He informed 

Maggie that so far we had not lost any of the crew, and the Nanok suffered no 

serious damage. He did mention that the afterstructure was seeping some 

seawater between it and the main deck. He hoped the seepage could be taken 

care of by the two bilge pumps. Both he and McClay and Robbins examined the 

169

areas as best they could. They all agreed that greater seepage was not likely to 

occur. 

It is cold and very windy as I am relieved of wheel watch by Jonesy at 

approximately 2100 after seventeen straight hours at the wheel. Jones takes 

over and I lay below to find some food. I am overtired and have a fever. I lay 

sprawled out on the engine room deck plates. Not all of the black, oily water has 

been pumped out of the stern bilges. Some of it washes into my clothing. A large 

portion of my parka that I lay in is somewhat of a mess. I have no other parka. 

We are west of Rich Point wherever that is. 

Just before my feet had gone out from under me in the pilot house, I recall a 

quick look through Maggie’s ice tunnel and saw Dreams, Fair, Rollston, Robbins, 

and Jones sliding off the gun deck toward the ship’s starboard side. I am elated 

to learn they are all well, now that I can actually see them again. 

I sleep in fitful snatches, warmed by the thought that thus far I had no reason to 

think of myself as a coward. 

December 18, Friday; At sea. 

Ice chopping continues at a frantic pace. No further chopping orders are given or 

needed. Every man-jack in the crew is aware of the need, urgency, and existing 

danger. Whenever anyone is not on a specific assignment or on watch, he is 

chopping ice. Many more are ill. Young Mister Dillon does his share of de-icing. 

The only tool available to him is a butcher knife. He has learned to do quite well 

with the blade. Chips of ice fly continuously from his spirited onslaught. His 

determination is a thing to behold. His hands bleed from a number of tiny blade 

cuts, as a wall of seawater breaks over the deck. Oscar is lifted from his seated 

position, carried a short distance away, and deposited, still in a seated position. 

His chop-chop doesn’t miss a stroke. 

Normally, climbing a ladder is simple. But with the Nanok climbing mountains, 

then skidding into deep valleys, climbing becomes a chore. When the Nanok 

begins a downward plunge, I become weightless on the ladder that drops away 

from under me. The Nanok ends her downward plunge and begins to climb 

upward again. Gravity pulls at my body so strongly that ladder climbing is near 

impossible. I seem to weigh tons! 

Pelting drops of airborne seawater is stripping the Nanok of her paint. It is just as 

well that the dorys are frozen beneath mounds of ice. At least they won’t be 

washed overboard. Knowing you have dorys on board is supposed to instill a 

sense of security, but truthfully, when one’s situation is such that a lifeboat is 

170

equired on a small vessel, it is likely to be at a time when a small boat is grossly 

inadequate. 

Weather is unchanged. It’s fury plagues us and is of endless endurance. It 

simmers down for very short periods and the crew becomes hopeful the 

remainder of the trip will be smooth sailing. 

The army weatherman's predictions are damnably accurate! Robbins thinks the 

guy is a sorcerer, a bad luck piece, or worse, and tells him so ... close-up. The 

man is unfluttered and grins as he tells us the weather will shortly become 

horrible once again, and it does! His predictions are often contrary to the 

barometer’s indication. He even accurately tells us the amount of time it will 

require for the weather to change. Rain, snow and heavy winds arrive according 

to his time table. He points out the fact that it is not his fault the weather does not 

remain placid. 

Cables securing the drums of fuel oil to the deck have given way and drums roll 

and tumble and pound one another before they bounce, one by one, into the sea 

and disappear. 

More sea water enters the forecastle through the old patched-up hole in the port 

bow. Some dribbles into Stan’s bunk. He is mad enough to bite himself. We 

could use two more bilge pumps. It is still possible to sleep in the forecastle but 

few choose to do so. Some alternate between engine room and forecastle when 

the need to sleep in comfort exceeds the fear of the Nanok sinking. 

At times I am near despair. All seems so hopeless! 

Are the Bluebird and the Natsek on the ocean’s bottom? 

My legs tremble and I am weak. I feel ill, am constantly wet and cold. Some men 

about me are hardly more than zombies, robots that go about their business as if 

programmed. There is a world somewhere but we have lost contact. Everyone 

appears to be as bad or worse off than I. 

There is nowhere to run as a blue-black wave comes after me. It carries me 

across the slippery deck and slams me against a wall of ice. I recover and grab 

desperately at one of a number of lifelines strung across the deck. I catch the line 

and fall into a seated position. My legs refuse to lift me so I rest a while. I eat 

soda crackers and drink the fluid from a can of peas and eat the peas. They feel 

like mashed ball-bearings going down my sore throat. We help ourselves to 

some army rations in the hold. Hard tack and canned ground meat that has been 

given many unprintable names. 

At day’s end I quietly say prayers for the Bluebird and Natsek. At least I know the 

Nanok is still afloat. 

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December 19, Saturday; At sea. 

Weather conditions unchanged. This must be hell for hell too is eternal. 

We continue to chop ice like there is no tomorrow and possibly there may not be. 

Wind and waves beat at us. Snow is intermittent. The army weatherman’s 

predictions are devastating. Barometer is useless, weather changes so swiftly. 

Flu-like symptoms prevail. Men move silently. Weariness takes it’s toll. 

Conversation is an effort. 

The anemometer high on the yardarm records maximum speed, then jams. Later 

it tears away from the yardarm, falls into the sea, and is lost. Finally, the yardarm 

is ripped from the mast and the mast splits. Rope lines that had been left strung 

and secured are torn loose. They fray and snap in the wind and must be chopped 

away. I am stricken with the worst sea sickness experienced to date. My retching 

ceases after I spit some blood. 

The radio antenna strung from fore to aft masts has flown away. It is now 

impossible to send SOS or Mayday should such an emergency arise. It will be 

great if we should have no such need. 

Maggie and the aerographer are in the pilot house as I take over the wheel. 

Water sprays into the pilot house through the skipper’s old peep hole. It splashes 

onto clothing and becomes ice crust. The skipper speaks kindly to me. No 

sarcasm or impatience. As many times in the past, he asks many questions, 

mostly about my home life, my family, friends, and hobbies. He grins broadly 

when I tell him I am the second youngest of twelve children. I tell him my oldest 

brother Ben served in World War I, while brothers Joe, Ray, and Ed are serving 

in World War II. Ben, the oldest, is thirty-one years older than Ed, the youngest. 

Ben has a son older than I am. Conversation keeps time moving along. Maggie 

tells me much more about himself. I believe we have become shipmates. 

Maggie’s glances return again and again to my cold hands. I’d forgotten to bring 

along my waterproof mittens. Maggie disappears into his cabin and returns with a 

heavy pair of woolen socks and pulls them onto my hands. He pours both of us 

several ounces of dry gin. Mine burns it’s way to my stomach. It is stimulating 

and I am grateful. 

The rudder becomes ever more difficult to control because my strength is not up 

to par. The wheel is necessarily large to provide leverage enough to move the 

giant rudder. My first Coast Guard vessel, the Sea Cloud, was equipped with 

electric motors that provided the necessary muscle. Not so the Nanok. Nanok’s 

rudder shaft is topped with a quadrant strung with heavy chain that leads through 

172

a series of pulleys, into the pilot house. There, the chain-ends are led-in from 

both port and starboard sides and are fastened to cable ends. The cable itself is 

wound around the axle of the ship’s wheel. Controls of this type are powered 

solely by man’s muscle. It is all one can do to steady the wheel as the seas 

whiplash the rudder. My arm muscles cramp and I pound the arm against the 

wheel to alleviate muscle constriction while I steer with the other. My teeth 

chatter constantly and I wonder why they don’t shatter. My knees quiver again 

with cold. According to the adjustment holes in my belt, I have lost much weight 

and several inches of girth. 

December 20, Sunday; At sea. 

We are in a witch’s cauldron. Mountainous waves, howling wind, and skinsearing 

airborne wave-tops. Either the waves are growing ever higher and more 

vicious, or my mind is on it’s way elsewhere! 

The Nanok zombies move more slowly and seemingly in jerky movements, like a 

motion picture gone awry. Hair and beards are long and matted with bilge 

grease. Head hairs are tangled mops. 

I cannot believe the Nanok is making any headway. It feels as if we are at a 

standstill. Nanok’s paint is almost all scrubbed away. Depth charges have been 

torn loose and lost in the sea. Some remnants of rigging flap in the wind. I am the 

only person left alive in my world of loneliness. 

An average sea is estimated to be one hundred and fifty feet from peak of one 

wave to that of the next. The Nanok is only one hundred and twenty feet overall 

and does not reach from one peak to the next. She is also quite narrow, twentythree 

feet, five inches maximum beam, and only a twelve foot draft. She is, 

therefore, forever balanced atop of a wave, or down in a valley between two 

peaks. She struggles as she climbs to a wave-top, only to have the wave pass 

by. Her bow then plummets swiftly downward, barely contacting any part of the 

wave’s hindside. 

Flying swiftly downward, the vessel is unable to follow the exact contour of the 

wave’s valley. Instead, she runs straight downward. Reaching the valley bottom, 

she continues downward and drives her nose into the bottom. At this point, 

buoyancy takes over and the bow pops backward out of the depths and begins to 

climb the leading side of the next oncoming wave 

‘This voyage can’t last much longer,’ I tell myself. I wonder just how far from 

Boston we still are. 

173

I am astounded! Robbins comes to see me and is in tears. He tells me he is 

scared to death! He says he is homesick and lonely and feels a compulsion to 

destroy himself! 

"Good god man!" I say. "Everyone is as scared and as lonely as you are." 

He does not believe me. 

"But they don't have the problems I do." 

"Like what, Robbie?" I ask sympathetically as possible. "We’re almost home, 

fella!" 

"That’s the trouble," says Rob. "I’m scared to go home, I know what I'll find." 

"Bob," I say, "your wife and mother will just hug you to death." 

"Think so? Look, ’ski, I never told anyone this before. As you know, I once held 

the rating of Surfman for more than fifteen years. Then the rating was eliminated 

and they rated me Boatswain’s Mate 1/c. As soon as he came on board and 

found out I was a Boatswain’s Mate who had never served on board a large 

vessel, Maggie came down on me. He never gave me a chance, ’ski! You know 

how asinine he can be." 

Yes, I knew. 

"I don’t think the old man knows the purpose or importance of our periodic 

achievement reviews. I’ve carried a perfect 4.0 rating throughout my career and 

Maggie knocked me down to a two point something!" 

"Oh my God!" I say. "How bad does that make things for you?" 

"My entire career is ruined, ’ski!" he sobbed. Tears streamed down his cheeks. 

"Did I tell you about my mother and my wife?" he asked. 

"I remember you telling me about your mom being ill and your pregnant wife 

having to walk a long distance every day to help her. Weren’t we still in Boston at 

the time? Come to think of it, you never did say if or when the baby was born. 

How come?" 

Bob’s teeth were grinding and he told me the worst. Shortly after leaving Boston, 

his mother suffered a stroke and was left partially paralyzed. Robbie’s wife 

continued to look after her as often as she could despite her advanced 

pregnancy. Late one evening on her way home she was viciously raped. She lost 

the baby and narrowly escaped death herself. 

174

"Did you tell the skipper?" I asked. 

"I wouldn’t tell that bastard anything that might make him think I wanted favors! I 

wouldn’t ask him to hand me a life jacket if we were going under!" 

"Oh! Bob!" I said. "I’m sure he would have sent you home and had you 

transferred to shore duty. 

"After what he has done to my career and my retirement pension I can’t even 

look at him without wanting to tear him apart! I know damn well he’s never had 

any formal Coast Guard training when he came on board in civilian clothes 

during wartime. He didn’t know from shit what performance ratings meant! He, 

without knowing, had the guts to mark me down as incompetent, when it was he 

that was, and is, incompetent! He could have asked Talledo for advice, but no, 

that would have indicated he was less than perfect!" 

Even though tears streaked his face, he managed to display a sardonic smile. 

"Later, when Maggie learned from Mister Dillon that he ruined my career, he 

apologized! Can you imagine him being so nice!? He apologized!!" 

And Robbins spit on the floor in contempt and anger. 

What could I say? I wrapped an arm around the poor guy’s shoulders and 

swallowed a lump in my throat. 

I said: "I didn’t believe the skipper had any formal training either, but he came on 

board at a time when competent, well-trained men were either scarce or nonexistent. 

The old man had very special talents and sea experience that the Coast 

Guard needed desperately. Maybe Admiral Smith conned Maggie into enlisting, 

who knows? They were said to be close friends for a long time. 

No doubt Maggie was a super seaman, but he had some serious shortcomings, 

too. I never felt more anger toward the man than I did after listening to Robbin’s 

story. 

I am on wheel watch alone with Maggie in the pilot house. Robbie runs through 

my mind. I feel sure I will never get my coxswain’s rating. But I don’t want to go 

down as silently as Robbie did. In a not-too-calm voice I blurt out: "Captain, am I 

ever going to get a coxswain’s rating? If I don’t get it in time to go home with it, I 

don’t want it ever. You promised it to me a long time ago, but you seem to avoid 

discussing it with me." 

I can't believe I said it! I’m sure there was anger in my voice. I thought he would 

tell me to go to hell. Instead, without turning around to look at me he asked: 

"What is your rating now?" 

175

‘For cris’sake!" I thought, "don’t give me that crap again that you don’t know my 

rating!’ I try to answer calmly. 

"I’m a Seaman, first class, sir." 

"Well, we’ll see." 

God, I was raging inside! 

"Captain," I said in desperation, "I believe I have proven myself equal to the 

rating and I want it on my sleeve for Christmas." 

"We’ll see," he said, and spoke no more for the balance of my watch. Neither did 

I. I had run out of words. I wanted to yank a spoke out of the wheel and hit him 

with it. It was the longest watch I ever stood. I just knew I would get the same 

crap as Robbie had. 

The sea calms a bit, wind just whispers. We sight for the first time several 

American vessels heading in opposite directions. Temperature is eighteen 

degrees below zero. My eyes feel frozen in my head. My cold, or whatever it is, 

has settled in my chest, making breathing painful. Fever and chills alternately 

hamper my activities. Legs and back feel weak. Ice chopping continues but not 

as urgently as before. Much less ice shrouds the Nanok. 

Elmer Comer, our feather merchant, comes running. He grins broadly and is very 

excited. "Sew the crow on your sleeve buddy, the old man has rated you 

Coxswain!" 

I am overwhelmed! The achievement is so very dear to me. I suppose it is 

because I had to earn it from a most demanding master. A man who refuses to 

acknowledge mediocrity? (Hah!) 

December 21, Monday; At sea. 

Where in hell are we!? It’s not possible to miss Boston, is it?! The wind whistles 

but with much less gusto. Temperature has risen notably. Many vessels are 

sighted, going every which way. Thick ice on deck is being loosened by the rising 

temperature. It has become much easier to chop larger chunks loose and we 

hoist them over the side. There is hardly a foot-thick wall of the stuff still clinging 

to the face of the pilot house. With luck the decks may be cleared in short order. 

Forward bilges are being pumped out. Without the smashing waves we are 

176

shipping less seawater. The Nanok is not so far down at the nose anymore. The 

starboard list has lessened considerably. The worst may be over. 

The sun pops out and shines brightly. It appears as a Christmas tree ornament 

with a frosty halo surrounding it. As we proceed, the sun moves toward the 

western horizon. The sky is exceptionally beautiful. It turns from orange to red 

with wide, purple beams that unsuccessfully try to penetrate low-hanging haze 

hugging the flat, green-black carpet of the sea. 

December 22, Tuesday; Constitution Wharf, Boston. 

Wind and some ice are still with us but hardly. The Nanok is now at a stable, 

even keel. Forward bilges have been drained. The Nanok has practically no paint 

left. 

As the day wears on, the wind becomes a gentle breath and the seas are asleep 

or at least napping. A low-lying mist lies close to the water and through it we see 

snatches of landfall. 

There is a yell from a dozen voices. I exit the forward hatch and am elated to see 

the entrance to Boston Harbor. The thrill of seeing it defies description. From 

somewhere inside the harbor there is a blinker light’s mores code being directed 

toward the Nanok. Robbins is responding with blinker from atop the pilot house. 

He relays the received message to the skipper in writing. As Maggie reads, his 

face begins to redden, and the veins in his forehead bulge. He breaks loose with 

a violent stream of Norwegian profanity, punctuated by several "God damn’s" 

and "sons of bitches" in the American language. 

"Damn if we’re going to stay out here for the night!" he shouts. 

We have been ordered to drop hook and lay-to for the night outside the harbor 

for quarantine purposes. There are giant nets woven of cable that are suspended 

deep in the waters and held in a vertical position, suspended from buoys floating 

on the water’s surface. The nets are laced with anti-submarine depth charges. 

Should an enemy submarine attempt to enter the harbor during the night, it would 

become entangled in the cable-net and, upon contact, would trigger an explosion 

of one or more depth charges. 

Every morning, two tug boats tow open the center of the net/gate to permit 

American and other friendly vessels to enter and/or depart. In the evening the 

process is reversed. The gate is closed to all traffic for the night. 

177

We temporarily wallow in the sea outside harbor. The two tugs are in process of 

pulling the gates closed in front of the Nanok. The skipper shouted to no one in 

particular, that we are hungry, and sick, and cold, and we are entering the harbor 

with or without official permission! 

He slams the ship’s telegraph to "Full Forward" and heads for the net’s opening. 

As we draw near, both tugboat skippers become aware of what we are 

attempting to do. They blast warning whistles that can possibly be heard as far 

away as Chicago. 

Both tugs were full-speeding the net closure to thwart the Nanok’s entry. The 

tugs loomed ever larger as we approached one another. It occurred to me that 

both tugs and Nanok’s path were about to terminate at precisely the same point 

of the harbor’s entrance! 

The tugboat skippers had a task to perform, and just because the Nanok was a 

relatively small American vessel they had no way of confirming we were 

genuinely American, nor what our cargo might be. 

Some of the crew were shouting: "We’ll never make it! We’ll never make it!" 

Others shouted: "Look out!" Others only mouthed: "Oh, God!" 

The Nanok’s bow was at it’s normal height and her gun deck was higher than the 

bow of either tug. I leaned far over the portside gunwale to see the one tug 

almost directly in front of us. She was about to try ramming our port bow in hope 

of pushing us aside. We were trying to outrace the tug and pass in front of her. 

We were gaining but not fast enough. The Nanok curved to the right, trying to 

pass without being struck. 

We were about to collide! Like a fool I stood transfixed, unable to move away 

from the gunwale. Instead I braced for impact and held fast to the inboard side of 

the gunwale. 

There was a loud, dull thud and a boom and a screech of timber and steel being 

forcefully ground against one another! The grinding vessels threw off acrid 

smelling smoke and some sparks as friction burned them. Miraculously, we 

moved past the tug. Some of her crew were screaming profanities at us. 

I remembered the other tug! 

From starboard, tug number two is bearing full speed toward Nanok’s bow! A 

collision seems certain! Crew members grasp whatever secured object is 

available to them to brace themselves against impact. 

It happens! 

178

Another great ear-punishing "Thump!" Then the grating, tearing, screeching 

sound of wood and steel grinding against one another forcefully. Smoke and odor 

from friction is terrible. Nanok’s bow has contacted the tug’s starboard just 

beyond her bow. The blow is a glancing one but staggering in severity. Both 

vessels rebound in opposite directions. The Nanok is inside Boston Harbor! 

From shoreward a siren screams. The Nanok heaves-to as a large speedboat 

pulls alongside Nanok’s starboard. Several captain of the port details scramble 

angrily on board. They are ushered hastily into the skipper’s cabin. Muffled 

sounds of loud, angry voices emanate from the small, closed cubicle. There is a 

short, heated debate regarding the Nanok’s quarantine directive. Health 

inspection outside the harbor had been ignored. The captain of the port detail 

leaves in a greater hurry than they had arrived. 

Maggie is more furious than I have ever seen him. His reddened face was about 

to explode. He stomped heavily behind the departing men. They too are redfaced 

and furious! They sped shoreward without a backward glance, heading 

toward the shipyard. We follow them. The tugs have completed closing the gates 

behind us. 

Every man that is not on watch stands silent and shivering along the portside 

gunwale, looking shoreward, wondering about what has yet to happen. It is bitter 

cold. We glide slowly and silently into a slip for tie-up. The port detail is nowhere 

about. 

Customarily a crew tries to look their best upon arrival at a port after a long 

voyage. The Nanok crew is at their worst! Below the knee-length khaki parkas, 

clothes are ragged and torn and coated with black oil. The warm bodies inside 

seawater-dampened clothing gives off a frosty vapor. Red eyes stare from inside 

black rings. Long, matted hair and beards are as dirty as the parkas. All is silent 

except for Captain Magnusson’s commanding voice ordering bow, breast, and 

stern lines cast ashore for mooring. 

Scores of late-working shipyard office personnel flock to the Nanok. The vessel’s 

physical appearance is as shocking as her crew on deck. In moments a milling 

throng fills the pier like extras in a silent movie. 

Women with horrified expressions whisper to one another as they point fingers at 

zombie-like crew members. One woman mutters a long, almost inaudible "Oh my 

dear God!" and begins to sob, then cry loudly. It is as if one of her children has 

been struck by an automobile. 

We appear as though we survived some disastrous sea battle. Nanok’s paint all 

gone. Shredded lines and rigging hanging loose. Antenna gone, some shutter 

glass beaten out, and a very large patch on our portside bow. It occurred to me 

that this could have been a great moment to recruit new Coast Guardsmen from 

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among the men ashore. Who or whatever it was that damaged a United States 

vessel so badly, the men appeared ready to destroy. Their obvious concern was 

gratifying to witness. 

Deck hands ashore refused to secure our lines despite Maggie’s shouted orders. 

Obviously the captain of the port has ordered them not to. Maggie is enraged. 

His jutting, stubborn jaw juts angrily forward. His face muscles quiver and his 

bloodshot eyes flash! He orders our lines to be withdrawn and backs the Nanok 

out of the slip. Civilian workers ashore are about to attack the deck hands for not 

securing our lines. 

It is deliriously wonderful to be safely back stateside after so long a time away. 

Yet I feel heartsick for some reason. What have we accomplished? We are not 

even welcome home! 

Nanok is put about and is aimed at our point of origin, Constitution Wharf. 

Arriving at the wharf we find it devoid of any vessels or human activity. It’s 

building is dark and foreboding. Night is falling swiftly now. Many of our men leap 

ashore as pirates boarding a prize frigate. Lines are secured on the dock. Pent 

up emotion takes hold of half dozen men. Even before the lines were secured, 

some race through the near empty cavernous interior of the long building. 

Perhaps they are fearful the Nanok will be turned away again. Several stumble 

and fall in their haste through the darkness. Out the front of the building they fly! 

Across Atlantic Avenue and up Hanover Street toward Scollay Square. I choose 

to remain on board even though I am tempted to run. 

In minutes, Elmer Comer, our feather merchant, becomes very busy typing leave 

of absence papers for many of the crew including me. Those of us who had not 

fled ashore were ordered to round-up those who had. Most were easy to locate. 

Every tavern that housed one or more of the ghoulish crew is surrounded by an 

unbelieving, curious crowd of civilians. 

What scenes there were! 

I find three of our men in a tavern. One has his parka open, his shirt stuffed with 

fresh fruit and a carton of ice cream that is melting and oozing out, over the front 

of his dungarees. He holds a large portion of a layer cake in one hand and a 

bunch of green onions in the other. How and from where, especially so short a 

time had he acquired all this?! He alternated eating mouthfuls of each, washing 

them down with long drafts of beer. He laughs wild and fiendishly behind an oily, 

matted beard. I feel sure it is Goncalves, but he does not answer to the name. 

His bloodshot eyes shift quickly back and forth across the ring of civilians who, 

not too closely, surround him. He seems fearful that some may interfere with, or 

take away, his banquet. Woe to anyone who might be foolish enough to try! This 

guy is of steel and lignum vitae. 

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Civilians are greatly amused at the loud, mad scene. Another crew member, 

Petrenko, has a table top covered with hot pastrami sandwiches. He devours 

them with three bites each, using a tumbler of whiskey as a wash. The third crew 

member (who later asked not to be identified) is piss-assed drunk and 

experiencing a laughing jag for the first time in his life (so he was to later say). He 

has (supposedly) always been a tee-totaler or thereabouts. He rocks precariously 

back and forth in uncontrollable laughter. The unusual and amazed expressions 

of onlookers had set him off and he couldn’t stop. Every face strikes him as 

hilariously funny. He points at each of them, even the bartender. Each point 

creates it’s own burst of laughter. Somehow we manage to herd them all back 

down Hanover Street to the Nanok. We are trailed by civilians much as the pied 

piper had been by other followers. 

From somewhere in heaven the Salvation Army has heard of the Nanok’s arrival 

and are at the wharf to tend to our needs. No one who has ever been to war will 

ever forget the Salvation Army. They have chosen their name perfectly. If I were 

to describe them, I would say the Salvation Army is the mother of all those of 

heavy heart. God bless her. 

I have been granted a ten-day leave of absence. I could begin immediately, but I 

choose to squeeze every ounce of pleasure out of this hard-earned Christmas. I 

decide to wait until Christmas Eve before catching a train for Detroit. I want to 

arrive there on Christmas morning to sweeten the thrill of coming home. 

Lucille has not heard from me for several months. I have written a number of 

letters to her but never mailed them. I was stupid enough to believe I would be 

stateside a long time ago, so I mailed nothing. 

It is difficult to restrain myself from not even making a phone call home. The 

family and Lucille must imagine all sorts of horrible things happening to me. I 

wonder if folks will easily recognize me with my very thin face and body. I am six 

foot two inches tall and now have about a thirty-four inch waste. I have lost 

nineteen pounds and had to hastily sew wedges in the backside of my dress blue 

trousers. The Natsek is not here yet, but she is sure to arrive tomorrow. 

After an extremely long and red hot shower and a few cups of coffee, I feel less 

tense and nervous. My chest still hurts and my eyes feel hot. I am weak and 

head-achey. The thrill of going home is a very effective medicine. It is very late 

and dark but I choose to go ashore alone. I walk slowly without any particular 

direction. It is refreshing and very satisfying just to walk on solid ground. I feel 

like a rural stranger in a large city for the first time. Every passing face seems 

beautiful to me, what little I see of them in semi-blackout. I want to talk to 

everyone I see. From out of the darkness a loudspeaker emits Christmas carols. 

Organ music and a children’s choir sounds so beautiful that I weep as I walk. I 

am happy that no one is with me to witness my emotion. Thoughts and visions of 

all I hold dear pass through my mind. I experience an unusual inner warmth and 

181

at the same time a horrible sadness. I believe I weep for every member of the 

Nanok’s crew as if they were family. I know of their courage and strength firsthand. 

My mind reviews many of the trying times we’ve experienced together. 

I feel a special affection for the Nanok herself. Her durability is a tribute to the 

men who built her. She survived the onslaught of an ocean gone mad. Though 

stripped of her trappings, she lays at rest in the place of her voyage beginning 

and where the proud vessel Old Ironsides once lay. The tiny lady Nanok carried 

us safely home and I’m grateful. 

I now know better the men who sail in ships and the affection they demonstrate 

for the sometimes rusted hulks they travel in. Ships are most often referred to in 

the feminine gender for they comfort and protect those within their keep. There is 

a certain something that every sailor leaves with his ship. Perhaps a certain 

portion of his loneliness, a bit of laughter, a coat of paint, a repaired yardarm, 

some pain or illness, or perhaps a frightened heartbeat or two. All such things 

mold a ship into a lady. 

Protection from all hostile elements. A home away from home. 

December 23, Wednesday; Constitution Wharf. 

The Natsek has not been heard from. 

Ships are more than steel 

and wood 

And heart of burning coal, 

For those who sail upon 

them know 

That some ships have a 

soul. 

Deep concern shows in every face. I refuse negative thoughts. She must be 

crippled and holed-up in some remote fjord or bay in Newfoundland, 

experiencing engine problems or such. What else could have befallen her? No 

one need be a sea captain to realize no enemy vessel could have challenged her 

in the type of weather we came through. 

182

Comer was unable to type my coxswain’s rating paper work because he lacked 

the proper forms. Since I’ve long had the cross anchors and eagle sewn onto the 

upper right arm of my winter blue jumper, I had no intention of removing same. I 

intend to wear it home no matter what. I have done a rather good job of crossstitching 

the "crow" onto the sleeve. What a beautiful bird the American eagle! 

Forms were obtained from a Coast Guard cutter nearby and I do not leave 

Elmer’s presence until he has completed typing them. 

Finally! I am a coxswain!! 

I complete many small chores. My uniform has been pressed automatically. As 

per common practice, it had been turned inside out and has lain between my two, 

thin mattresses. When turned rightside out, the pants and jumper appear ironed. 

Elmer, Jonesy, and I go into town, enjoy a great meal, goodies, and brew, and 

return to the Nanok. It is almost deserted. The crew has fled in all directions. 

December 24, Thursday; Enroute home. 

Fear for the Natsek’s safety is now official. 

I know all of her crew and it is very difficult to accept the premise that all is not 

well. The thinking now is that she may have capsized under heavy ice as the 

Nanok almost had. This scenario is of course possible. Skipper La Farge is 

known to be a most competent sailor but only with sailboats and sport sailing. 

Supposedly he had never sailed as far north as Newfoundland. From actual 

observation, I know for fact that his crew did not chop ice as fast or effectively as 

the Nanok crew. He possibly did not know the full danger of heavy icing 

conditions. 

Maggie certainly knew. 

The crew members still on board the Nanok are raucous with excitement. So am 

I, except I feel an occasional tug of guilt because the Natsek is not here to share. 

I pray for her and her crew. 

Signals are crossed. Elmer and I were to go to the rail depot together. While I 

was showering, someone told him I’d already left. So he left also. He was gone 

about an hour before I became aware of his absence. Even though he was 

bound for Danville, Indiana, and I for Detroit, Michigan, we were to lunch together 

and have a few shells of beer before boarding our respective trains. They may 

have proven to be one and the same for at least part of the way. 

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Arriving at the depot I learned that I had several hours before my train time. I 

purchased my ticket and decided to walk away my waiting time in the busy 

downtown Boston area. On an obscure little side street I came across a very 

small barber shop. It had but one chair and of course only one barber. I decided 

to have my shoulder-length hair sheared. Since the barber was surprised at my 

hair’s length, I told him I had just returned from overseas and had had no time for 

a professional haircut. He said that about an hour before my arrival, another 

Guardsman dropped in to have his extra-long mane sheared. He had also just 

arrived from overseas and in his haste to catch a train, he forgot and left his 

eyeglasses at the barber shop. Could it have been Comer?! 

"Can I see the glasses please?" I asked. 

"Sure" he said and showed them to me. 

"By God! I can't believe this!" I say. "Those are my shipmate Elmer’s glasses!" I 

knew them well because of several small, unusual kinks in the left earpiece, and 

their not too common-shaped gold frames. Both barber and I marvel at the 

unbelievable coincidence of Elmer and I selecting the same, small, obscure 

shop! 

"Could you see to it that your friend gets these glasses?" asks the barber. 

"But I will not see him again for almost two weeks," I reply. 

"I’ll probably never see him again," counters the barber. I agree to take the 

glasses along with me. Hah! Elmer always said he is as blind as a bat without his 

glasses! His vision problem must be, at least in part, imaginary. . Otherwise, how 

did he manage to leave without them? The barber said Elmer appeared to be 

quite intoxicated and amused the barber with his very dry humor. 

On the train I sat alongside a happy civilian who had a small, black leather 

satchel containing several bottles of liquor. We two proceeded to drain them. The 

trip was jolly. Passengers all join into singing Christmas carols. My friend 

disembarked long before Detroit. 

December 25, 1942, Friday; At home, Detroit, Michigan. 

I nap on and off until the conductor passes through crying: "Detroit, next, 

Michigan Central Depot, end of the line, remember your baggage, please." 

A Checker Cab carried me from the southwest side of downtown to the farthest 

northeast boundary of the city, Eight Mile Road, and Gratiot Avenue. Home is my 

sister Joann at brother-in-law Walter Kluza’s house on Hickory Street. 

184

Joann cries when she answers the doorbell and finds me standing on her porch. 

Husband Walter’s face wears a broad smile, but where is Lucille!? Joann informs 

me Lucille had decided to spend the holidays with her sister and family. Joann 

phones the sister and uses some excuse why Lucille must return immediately. 

She soon returns and is obviously irritated for having to do so. As She enters the 

house, Joann and Walter step aside to allow her to see me. She is shocked! She 

trembles and falls in a dead faint but I manage to catch her. I tell her how much I 

love her and how much I missed her. In return I am smothered with kisses. 

We go about enjoying the best Christmas of our lives. 

Epilogue 

The Natsek and her entire crew were lost forever. No one will ever really know 

why. It was, however, officially concluded that the Natsek most likely capsized 

under heavy ice formation and all twenty-four crew members met death by 

drowning. I believe this to be true. 

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Death of a Wooden Shoe - U.S. Coast Guard

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