Bittersweet

Russ, Rudy, and Gotty agreed with me to go on our own, and somehow, we’d get together again.  I packed my duffel bag.  I tried to give back some stuff.  I still didn’t feel well and the bag was too heavy.  But no one would take my rejects; they weren’t prepared to take back anything, only prepared to supply.  So I neatly put everything I didn’t need on my cot and put the duffel bag on my shoulder, said good-bye to the guys around me and walked to the airport about an hour away.  Then I started walking from plane to plane, planes that I thought looked like they were going to leave.  I’d call up to the pilot and ask if they would take me with them to London.  I must have asked four or five before I got a positive response.  That pilot said, “Sure, pile in; we’re leaving in a few minutes.”  It didn’t take me long.  I pulled myself in and sat on the floor against the side of the plane.  I wasn’t real happy.  I was getting closer to getting home, but I hadn’t heard from anyone for months now, and I was concerned how would I fit back into my former life.  At least I wasn’t hungry and my legs were healing.  The sores were almost gone.

The plane was filled with cargo and some other soldiers.  No one talked and the flight was very short.

The London airport was a military one, and I had no trouble hitchhiking into London.  I did two things: called my friends the Webster’s who invited me immediately to come and stay with them and sent my family a cable telling them I was in London and all right.  I only stayed with the Webster’s for a few days when I had to go off to London.

I went to the airbase at while at the Webster’s.  I wanted to find my bike that I had left leaning against a wall on December 1, 1943.  I felt sure it would still be there.  They would keep it for me.  No one knew anything about it.  I’d had a lock on it, and I was disappointed.  I would have liked to send it home, but I guess someone just sawed off the lock and took the bike under their care.  I could remember before I was shot down seeing guys go through the personal things of crews that were shot down, keeping what they wanted.  I hadn’t said anything then so what could I say now.  But, I wondered how much of my stuff had been sent home.

Leaving the Webster’s, I went to London.  We were supposed to report there where we would be put on trains for an English port to sail for home.  But things changed.  There was a general strike, and no ships were sailing from the English ports.  So, instead, we were put on trains to Scotland where the Queen Elizabeth was waiting for us, the same ship that had brought us over here.

I could now walk without pain, and I wasn’t hungry.  So, when I boarded the ship, I was gradually losing my concerns.  I was happy and had found my friends again.  We were given more equipment, and again I just abandoned the stuff.  I just couldn’t carry it all.  I still felt tired, perhaps because of all the weight I had lost.

Everyone on this ship was ex-POW’s.  We didn’t have to wear our life vests all the time on this trip because of no submarines.  We were appalled to discover that because there were so many of us on board, there would be only two meals a day served--only two!  And I had promised myself that I’d never be hungry again.

The meals, I found, were good even if the food was very bland and very healthful.  We spent our whole mealtime keeping plates from sliding off the table as the ship rolled, eating, and making sandwiches.  I had sandwiches wrapped in paper napkins in every pocket and in both hands when I left the table as did all my friends.  We didn’t even miss lunch which wasn’t served.  We picnicked all the time between meals.  I kept my promise to myself.  I still wasn’t hungry, not at any time.  I even ate at night.  Just the thought of not having food available gave me a feeling of panic.  Just having food available, I felt calm about it.

©Joseph H. Harrison 1999