My husband, John Bennett, was in the Army Chemical Warfare during WWII. While he was overseas in the European Theater, I lived with my parents in Columbus, Ohio.

I worked at Fort Benning in the The Infantry School Message Center. I kept records of outgoing and incoming mail from the commandant's office (we called it the hot stuff). I sorted mail and typed, too.

One day someone brought in some tomato plants and gave me some. I took them home to start my victory garden.

Our backyard was packed-down red Georgia clay. I could hardly break the ground, but dig I did. It was like Tom Sawyer's fence. The children in the neighborhood thought it looked fun and asked me if they could dig, too. They brought their soldier dads' foxhole shovels and got to work. They asked if they could dig in my garden while I was away at work the next day and I gave them permission. When I came home from work, I found my yard pulverized and ready to plant.

Then my dad got interested. He brought home tomato stakes and fertilizer.

At that point the children started their own victory gardens.

After the plants were in place I learned to sucker them so the tomatoes would grow larger. I watered them and pulled weeds. It was the pride of the neighborhood.

John returned after nearly two years safe and sound. We went back home to Louisville, KY. John had volunteered for the Army in spite of the draft-exempt job he had as a Plant Records Manager in a war plant, so his job was waiting for him and he went back to work.

We were married 56 years and raised 3 beautiful daughters.

-Eloise Bennett (Coquina)

During the battle of the Rhine in March of 1945, I was serving with the 1159th Combat Engineer Group in direct support of the 9th Armored Division. As the forward units of the 9th advanced and the Rhine came in sight, they were amazed to see that the Ludendorf railroad bridge at the town of Ramagen was still standing. The Germans were retreating across the bridge and had charges all set to blow it up but the charges failed and the 9th was able to push across and get a whole combat team over the river and on to the east side against fierce opposition.

When it was discovered that the Americans had taken the bridge, this suddenly became the most critical strategic point in Europe. Both Germans and Americans rushed all available troops and equipment to the sight. One writer states that Hitler made his last great commitment of the Luftwaffe to destroy the bridge and V2 missiles were launched from Holland to knock it out. All attempts failed, but the bridge was badly damaged.

The night of March 7-8, the 99th Infantry Division started across the bridge groping their way in the pitch darkness over craters left by the bombing and the planking which had been placed by the Germans between the rails for their own retreat. By this time the Germans had established gun emplacements on top of the steep embankments on the east side of the river just above the bridge. Their 88's were zeroed in on the bridge and its environs, so the 99th felt the full force of their faultless aim and the devastating affect of the red-hot shrapnel all night long. Their firing was so accurate and intense that the MP who guided the troops across the damaged bridge approaches that night had to be replaced every 8 minutes.

During World War II, between March, 1942, and March, 1944 (when my husband left for overseas duty), I was a Camp Follower, which is the title of the book I have been writing for the last five years. The subtitle is, "A Bride's Life Outside the Barracks."

I had been married for fie months and was determined to be near my husband, Al Christiansen, at his military locations wherever he was sent - which turned out to be in California, New Mexico, Georgia and Oregon - eight different sites in all.

Our 1941 Chevrolet was our lifeline to each other. Wherever he was stationed, I was not far behind. Job hunting and living quarters were always my first priority, always explaining to a prospective landlord that my soldier/husband would join me on weekends.

The letters, written to my family in Illinois several times a week, describe my adventures, lifestyle, and the personalities of those whose paths crossed mine. I quote from a letter written on May 22, 1943, at Columbus, Georgia: "I woke up yesterday morning with another big welt on my arm. So Mrs. Turnipseed, my landlady, told their daughter to hunt through the bedsprings for bugs, but she couldn't find anything. I really dreaded going to bed last night - even left the light on half the night in hopes that would scare anything away. Woke up this morning with great big welts on my left arm! So they took the bed outside and hunted through it and found a bedbug! 'Well, what do you know about that,' was their general reaction. The Turnipseeds sent the bed away and brought down a twin bed from upstairs. If Christy weren't coming in tomorrow, I think I'd sit in a chair in the middle of the room all night. They're sure that there aren't any bugs in this bed, but how do I know they aren't in the room and my clothes? Dr. Turnipseed (the City Health Inspector in Columbus, Georgia!) said I react so well to the bites, I'll make a good guinea pig for this bed. He says they can feast on him and he'd never know it - BIG joke!"

-Fran Christiansen-Keffer (Harbor Court)

One thing in my life that I feel very badly about is that I was never able to thank the man who so courageously saved my life in 1943.

I was stationed aboard a destroyer, the USS Landsdale in the Mediterranean Sea. Our task was to escort a convoy of supply ships from the Rock of Gibraltar to Africa. Just at sunset, we were called to our battle stations, when German aircraft carrying torpedo bombs attacked our convoy and sunk our ship. Prior to that, our ship had been in the U.S. to have our torpedo tubes removed and 20mm and 40mm machine guns installed. Because of this, we had to have more personnel aboard to man these guns, and there were not enough life jackets to go around. I didn't have a life jacket because I was in a gun turret.

I jumped into the water and swam away from the ship. I took my sheath knife and cut the laces on my shoes so I could kick them off. By then it was midnight, and it was dark and very, very cold. One of the oil tankers had been hit, so the water was covered with oil. The machine gunners had been issued two life jackets and fortunately, one of them swam by and threw me his inflatable one. I hung onto it for four hours, until a Coast Guard ship came by and rescued us. We were a sorry mess in our soaked clothes, covered from head to toe with oil - even in our ears!

There would have been no way I could have survived without the help from this gunner. Even though I tried to locate this man, I was never able to properly thank him.

-Ray Forsythe (Lakewood)

During the Vietnam War, my dad, David Fountain (Lakewood), served as a Navy chaplain out in the field. Besides being faithful to keep in contact with my mother, he also made sure that my brother and I felt his presence from so far away right in our own home. As children, before we went to bed, we would have songs, stories, and a bedtime prayer. In order to keep our childhood as stable and protected as possible, he sent tapes home telling us stories about the little children that he encountered in Vietnam. He would also end the tape with a goodnight song and prayer and let us both know that he loved and missed us very much. I was only 3 years old at the time, but I can still vividly remember the sound of the mortar shells in the background and remember asking what those noises meant.

It wasn't until just a few years ago that I fully realized and appreciated what my dad had done for my brother and I. My parents were making their "final move" from Southern California to Shell Point. In preparation for their move, they passed on a lot of their keepsakes to me. One of those was the reel to reel tapes from Vietnam that had been transferred to cassette tapes. I listened to every one of them and truly felt blessed and special to have a dad who went out of his way during such a difficult time to make sure that I knew he was thinking of me and that he loved and missed me. Thank you so much for this opportunity to share what a special man I have for my father!

-Ruth Fountain Mitchell

Somehow the "good guys" won WWII without me, as I was a little too late for that. I did spend three years in the Navy after high school, but the event I'd like to relate actually came after my discharge, and while I was in Air Force ROTC at Ohio University in the early 1950's. Most of the veterans that had come into colleges after the war had completed their schooling and were no longer on campus. The ROTC command had a certain hierarchy on all college campuses, which provided some of the student trainees with various cadet officer rankings. Since I had prior military service, the first two years of the four year course were waived, and since there were no other (more experienced) veterans available, I was made a Lt. Colonel. My rank was clearly designated by fancy little shoulder boards as part of my uniform, which I was obliged to wear three days a week when I oversaw drill practices. Of course military protocol was to be observed at all times, which meant everyone in uniform had to salute me as a superior officer.

Now at the same time all this respect was being given my exalted military status, it so happened that I was also a lowly pledge in a well-known fraternity, and subject to all the demeaning things that the active members could think to pile on. Some of the fraternity members were also ROTC students, which, of course, I outranked. They made it very clear to me that "no way" were they going to salute me under any circumstances, and if they were coming along when we were all in uniform, I'd better be looking the other way. They threatened dozens of push-ups for me, and many other unmentionable penalties if they ever had to salute me, so I was forced to use great caution at the same time I was acting Mr. "Big Shot" ROTC officer. Somehow I juggled my Jeykll and Hyde campus roles, and went on to become an active member in my fraternity, and ultimately received my commission in the Air Force.

But I'll never forget that whoever made up that saying, "Rank Has Its Privilege" never tried pledging a fraternity at the same time!

-Phil Hilton (Rosemont)

On Christmas Eve 1941, just two weeks after Pearl Harbor, the U.S. Navy made a technical assignment to two groups: Bell Labs and the newly organized Underwater Sound Lab at Harvard University -- develop an air-droppable torpedo that will search for an enemy submarine by listening to its sound. It had the code name "Fido". There were months and months of frustration as various things were tried. Some worked, some didn't. This was a whole new technology with no proven background to go on, and this stuff must be dropped from an airplane and survive the shock of water entry. One particularly important test run was scheduled for December 7, 1942.

Our test range was about 30 miles northeast of Boston Harbor, but the Navy planes came from the Quincy Navy Base, about 20 miles south of Boston. No cell phones. This test torpedo, called "FX-4", was worked on all night long over at the Navy Base. Finally, it was buttoned up and ready for the flight to the test range. It was supposed to find and attack the artificial noise target that simulated submarine noise. If it was working properly, it should make that attack about 2 or 3 minutes after launch.

The target was a small boat with a noisemaker dropped over the side, and this boat was being towed by another, a small rowboat with a single operator. Retrieving boats were scattered around. All engines were off. If the attack was successful, the man hauling the target would wave his oar. The plane made three passes -- two practice runs and finally the drop. Fido hit the water with a splash . . . and disappeared beneath the surface. One minute passed. Another minute stretched slowly by. Was Fido searching or had it sunk? Did that drop tear something loose inside? . . . Suddenly, the single man in the boat stood up, waving his oar. A wave nearly knocked him overboard so he sat down.

The attack was a triumph. For the first time in American history, a torpedo that was launched from a plane used acoustics successfully to pursue its target. That was December 7, 1942, one year, to the day, after Pearl Harbor. The final design was a blending of the best of the Harvard and Bell Labs work, and it was put into production by Western Electric, the manufacturing branch of AT&T. Seventeen months after we got that directive from the Navy, this program went from an idea (only an idea) to a weapon in production and delivered to the Navy; and it sank its first two enemy submarines in March 1943, four months after the December 7 successful run.

This acoustic torpedo and its two variations were responsible for sinking 55 submarines and seriously damaging another 24. That was the American count. The British Navy also used it but we don't know their totals. Two other acoustic homing torpedoes saw service late in the Japanese war.

So, to many of us, December 7, 1942, is also a special date!

-Laymon Miller (Harbor Court)

I was a B-26 "Martin Marauder" bomber pilot during World War II. I served with the 386th Bomb Group in England. I flew my first bombing mission on July 31, 1943, a few days before my twenty-first birthday.

By early May, 1944, there was a lot of speculation on the day and place of the invasion, which we all knew was imminent. On June 4, 1944, I flew my sixty-first bombing mission. On June 6, 1944, we found out this was it! We were called into the briefing room before dawn and told our mission was to bomb the beaches before the troops went home. We were also told that the 386th Bomb Group, by virtue of its high record of accurate bombing, had been selected by General Bradley himself to be the last group to bomb before the ground troops hit the beaches. This meant that our bomb run on the beach had to be timed between two and five minutes before the infantry hit the beach. We laid our bombs on Utah Beach, right on the minute. Our bomb load was 44 one-hundred-pounders, to be laid at close intervals along the beach. Their object was to detonate mines, tear up barbed wire, and leave craters as ready-made foxholes.

Our morning briefing called for bombing at 12,000 feet - the normal altitude for the B-26 Marauder, but if the weather was bad, we could go in as low as 1,500 feet. The cloud cover was low and we ended up bombing at 1,600 feet. It was an awesome sight, seeing the English Channel black with hundreds of boats and ships heading for the beaches. After the bomb run we turned inland and were greeted by another awesome sight -- hundreds of parachutes on the ground, all over the French countryside. The paratroopers had landed the night before the invasion.

At this point, let me regress a minute. Three or four weeks before D-Day, my friend and I went to visit a friend of his, who was the aide to General Williams, head of the Troop Carrier Command. The morning after we arrived, little Flight Officer Miller found himself jammed in the back of a staff car between two other generals on their way to some site near the edge of Sherwood Forest. The reason we were there was soon evident -- hundreds of paratroopers were coming down all around us. I learned later that this was the biggest mass parachute jump ever staged - and the pre-D-Day training exercise.

As we made our way back over the Channel to England, I remembered my flying school days, when I thought, if I wash out of pilots' school, I want to be a paratrooper. I was glad I didn't wash out - and I've often wondered if I'm the only guy who saw all those parachutes coming down from the sky and then, a few weeks later, flying overhead and saw them on the ground in France.

By June 22, 1944, I had nine more missions in support of the invasion force, giving me a total of seventy-one. It was then decided that anyone completing sixty-five missions could rotate back to the States. By then I was the proud owner of an Air Medal with thirteen Oak Leaf clusters, a Distinguished Flying Cross, and a Purple Heart. I caught the first boat to New York!

-Milton "Pat" Miller (Junonia)

When the war broke out I was a first year student at The Missionary Training Institute at Nyack, N.Y. I had begun my studies in the Fall before the war started in December. I registered with Draft Board back in Durham, N.C. and received a Draft Classification of 4-D. This made it possible for me to continue my studies during the war period.

Quite a few of the male students began working at Lederle Laboratories in Pearl River, New York. We were engaged in the processing of blood plasma for the armed services. Our work hours were from 5 p.m. to 12:30 a.m. nightly - 6 nights a week with one half hour off for dinner.

The blood donations came in from Buffalo and Rochester New York daily. We usually had 2000 or more bottles of blood each day. Some of our group worked at the centrifuge. Others worked at siphoning off the plasma with 8-25 bleedings into a large bottle. Others worked in the type testing room. Still others worked in sealing off the blood with 8-25 bleedings in what we called a "large pool." At least 8 bleedings had to be in each "pool" so that type was not a problem in the use of the blood at places of need in the armed services.

Working for Lederles at this time and in this particular department enabled us to make a significant contribution to the war effort and halped us pay for our expenses at the Institute in Nyack. Some who will read this at Shell Point would have known a number of us who worked at Lederles, i.e., Dr. John Taylor, my Nyack roommate and Junonia resident; Ben Jenkins, who was very well known across the nation as a gospel singer; Russell "Bud" Rudes, Alliance missionary to Indonesia; and Jim Cunningham, who pastored a number of Alliance churches with much blessing, and many others.

All of us who made this contribution to the war effort were able to pay all our expenses at the Institute at the same time. We considered that we were blessed of the Lord in the provision of our study exzpenses and to have a large part in the vital war effort.

Rudes went to Indonesia as a missionary. Jenkins sang his way into the hearts of countless people all across the USA and Canada. John Taylor had a very effective life time of service, largely at Wheaton and Nyack Colleges. Much more could be added - I met and courted my wife all during the war - at Nyack.

We were thus prepared for more than 40 years of fruitful ministry as missionaries to the great land of India. So we made a signicant contribution to the war effort and in turn received a good education and developed friendships that have continued all the time since. God is so good!

-Paul Morris (King's Crown)

It was December 22, 1944. It was bitter cold, in the low teens, and the ground covered with snow. The 101st Airborne Division and General Anthony McAuliffe were in Bastogne, Belgium, surrounded by the German 7th Army. German Lt. Helmut Henke and three German soldiers carrying white flags approached. They had an offer from the German General, Fritz Bayerlein, to accept their honorable surrender so they would not all be killed. General McAuliffe's answer was, "Nuts!" The American troops had been hampered for weeks because of low clouds, which prevented the Air Force from attacking from above. But a break in the weather was long overdue.

I was a 19-year old Private, trained as an X-ray technician in the 241st General Hospital. We were in a French Calvary Post, which had been the base camp of the 82nd Airborne Division. They were up in Belgium fighting in the Bulge. Many of the casualties we received from the Bulge were troops with frostbite or frozen feet. Since we were a medical corps, we had no arms and had never been trained with weapons.

The night of December 22, I checked the bulletin board and saw that I was to be on guard duty of the motor pool. Our trucks and ambulances were two miles from our quarters in some tin roofed buildings. My tour of duty was to be from Midnight until 4:00 a.m. I was taken to the motor pool where I relieved the guard on duty. He gave me my weapons, a flashlight, and a billy club, plus my Red Cross armband. The corporal of the guard said he would return in four hours - and off he went.

It was cold and windy and when a gust of wind hit, the tin roof would "crack" - and I would jump about a foot. I decided I should give the situation a serious assessment. Here I was, armed with a billy club and a flashlight - and 30 miles away were the Germans. Even though I could speak German, I didn't believe I could talk any German soldiers out of taking our trucks if they wanted them. I had no telephone - no means of communication. After my assessment, I decided if the Germans came, they could have the whole kit and kaboodle! I found a blanket in one of the ambulances, and then I went into the darkest, most wind-free corner of the main tin roofed building and made myself a nest. Of course I couldn't sleep at ten degrees above zero, so I would exercise my feet and legs, or whatever I could, to stay warm. Finally, 4:00 a.m. rolled around and the corporal of the guard came back. Since I'd heard that some Germans could speak English, I didn't present myself to the corporal until I was sure it wasn't a trap. I'd hidden myself so well, he couldn't find me!

Back in my quarters I climbed into bed and fell sound asleep. I was awakened for roll call at 8 o'clock - and when I went outside, everyone was rejoicing. The sky was blue and there were no clouds. Soon we would hear planes overhead. We looked up and saw a glorious sight - numerous waves of B-17 bombers and their fighter escorts were rendezvousing right over our camp. They headed east and south, and soon we could hear the muffled "boom, boom, boom" of dropping bombs. That day, December 23, 1944, marked the turning point of the Battle of the Bulge. The Germans had abandoned their tanks, trucks and cannons and were walking back to Germany because they had no fuel. I thanked God that day for clearing the clouds and letting our Air Force do its work. I also thanked God for not letting the Germans break through at Bastogne and come after the motor pool of the 241st General Hospital. Armed with a billy club and a flashlight, I don't think I could have slowed them down - let alone stopped them!

-Dr. Emmett "Duke" Murray (Oakmont)

Early in March, 1945 I was in combat, a staff sergeant in the infantry with the 99th Infantry division, on the Cologne Plains in Germany. Suddenly we were moved south, just below Bonn, Germany, on the Rhine River, where we prepared to cross the river at Remagen. Our crossing was over the Ludendorf Bridge, an old railroad bridge that was covered with planks and plywood so we could run on foot over it. Our backpacks now were loaded and built up with canvas from a two-man pup tent, a woven GI wool blanket, an aluminum mess kit, long GI socks, long wool underwear, and a raincoat. We were issued two bandoliers of rifle ammunition, with 48 rounds each. They could hang over your shoulder and around your neck. Our leaders didn't know when they could get food across the river to us, so we were issued nine K-rations (you need three a day). We had been using them for weeks during the Battle of the Bulge in December and January, and each one looked like a large Crackerjack box we ate out of as kids. It was hard to carry nine of them - they couldn't all fit in the backpack and you still had your rifle and hand grenades to carry.

At 3 a.m. on March 11, after hot chow by the mess tent, we started our eight-mile march down the mountain in single file. There was fog and it was pitch dark - the only way you knew the column had stopped was when your face went into the backpack of the guy in front of you! By daylight we reached the village at the bottom of the hill, and were being shelled by enemy artillery across the river beside us. The bridge was about a mile ahead of us and we were being bombed - but our air corps and anti-aircraft guns kept most of them away. We had to step around bodies of American soldiers that no one had time to recover.

About 9 a.m. my company was ordered to head across the bridge. It was frightening to limp along the planks, stopping to help a buddy who had tripped and fallen, while seeing the fast-moving Rhine running below us. But my company made it across OK and we moved up a hill a few miles to the right and began to dig in for the night in the woods, where the shelling continued.

An immediate action order from the War Department arrived at my door Dec. 18, 1941, two weeks after Pearl Harbor. I reported to the Station Hospital at Ft. Meade, MD in February.

Four months later the 76th Infantry Division was activated and I was transferred to its medical battalion. On Dec. 9, 1944, the Division was shipped to the European Theater of Operations. Our first combat experience came at the Battle of the Bulge. Under command of General Patton's Third Army, we proceeded to the Siegfried Line at Echternach, Luxembourg.

We moved rapidly toward the Rhine River and we were delayed while the engineers built a Bailey Bridge across the river. In a small village some thirty miles west of the river, I came upon an abandoned German Red Cross bus. Thinking it would make a fine dental clinic, I had the engineers check it for booby traps. We got clearance and built a clinic on wheels.

All went well until we tried to cross the Rhine on the Bailey track. The axles would not clear, thus holding up all behind us. The commanding engineer officer came along and said, "Get all your equipment off that bus in the next ten minutes!"

The last I saw of my bus was its roof floating down the Rhine River!

-Dr. Nathan Sheckman (Rosemont)

As a civilian - before I married - I was an air-raid warden, a plane spotter, an assistant in a U.S.O. registration for the draft, and worker in ration stamp distribution office. I also knitted scarves, gloves, caps and socks, and took courses in home nursing and first aid.

After my marriage in 1944 to dentist in the Navy Dental Corps, I accompanied my husband to stations within the USA. At one point in our travels, we had a Victory Garden. After he went overseas, I returned to my parents' home with our three-month old daughter - and during his time away, sent frequent packages and daily letters, awaiting his safe return.

-Mildred Stackhouse (Oakmont)

The Hacking sisters were a team of four sisters who traveled throughout Massachusetts giving musical concerts during the '40s and early '50s. They sang duets, trios, and solos accompanied by piano and/or organ. The concerts were to church groups, Masonic lodges, Grange halls, prisons, minstrel shows, etc. During World War II they performed as USO shows at Buzzards Bay for troops from Otis Air Force Base. Three of the sisters reside at Shell Point: Marion Kramer (Sand Dollar), Ruth Phipps (soon to be in Coquina), and Ellie Watts (Lakewood).

-Ellie Watts (Lakewood)

I was drafted into the U.S. Army in March 1943, and was stationed in dusty Ft. Riley, Kansas, then Camp White, Oregon, followed by time at the Presidio of Monterey, California and on to Fort Sam Houston, Texas with the 4th Army HQ. In November 1944, I went to the port of embarkation in New York and across the Atlantic on the Mauritania, eating "goat" and mutton stew. We went to Nantwich, a small town in northern England near Crewe.

On December 28th, the 15th Army HQ embarked for France on the small British ship, the HMS Javelin. While I was playing in the usual poker game about 3 p.m., we were either torpedoed or hit a mine. About 10 soldiers were killed in the blast. We were put onto lifeboats on a very rough English Channel, and we heard the Javelin blow up after the rest of the crew had been transferred to a French frigate.

A British destroyer, (part of the Lend-Lease program) picked us up from the lifeboats and later, cruising the channel dropped "hedgehogs", an array of depth charges. I thought we had been hit again until a seaman yelled, "It's all right matey, our hedgehogs". We landed in LeHavre the next morning. We went to a former German barracks in Suippes, France, and re-outfitted, since we had lost all our equipment and belongings. This took place during the Battle of the Bulge. Then I went on to Belgium and two more postings in Germany before returning to the U.S. in 1946.

I still have the lucky pair of red 6's I held from that poker game on the ship before it went down.

-Dick Wright (Rosemont)

from my diary in North Korea, "Hello Cherry Tree" (1953), available in the Shell Point Gift Shop (all proceeds benefit The Pavilion Auxiliary)...

One by one we rolled around the bowl beneath the dam, lighting fires in a huge lumber pile and the mill buildings. Finally some tracers began to appear as we left. The Skipper had said "They won't expect you so soon after we lost a plane there." Perhaps that was the reason.

Nearing Tanchon again I called Rod. "Scotty Three, you two work on "Claire's" track on the North end and we'll hit the South ten minutes. Join us at five thousand." In Rod's voice I could hear the relief of a safe return from Sochyon's dismal threatening canyon. Once rejoined we swung Southeast to the sea. In the distance a Destroyer lay off-shore on patrol and rescue duty. I flipped a page on my kneepad to identify her and called. "Temple Bar Uncle (was the Skipper a Yale man I wondered, remembering the old college song), this is Two Zero One Cherry Tree, over". An immediate clear response came, followed by "Are you in any difficulty?" I grinned at the very British (Aussie?) accent.

"Negative, we've finished annoying the populace and wondered if you wanted to give your crew some AA defense practice".

"Yes indeed," was the response, "How soon?"

"Five minutes give you enough time? We'll come by with two from one o'clock around your Port side and our other two from eleven o'clock around you starboard, not too fast."

"Right, excellent. We'll be ready", while over his voice could be heard the call to Battle Stations. I tapped my helmet and pointed to Rod to break off. We began a long slow sweep down the shore to use the time, throttling back to make the pass a slow one. When they were three miles away I called "Temple Bar, you will mention to the crew that we're friendly and they're to keep their hands off the firing buttons?"

"Aye, sir, and they usually listen to me."

The pass was made at about 400 feet in a fairly steep bank to keep us close aboard. Bill as usual was flying flawlessly and tucked in tight with his own view of our friend. The ship was dipping into some old rollers while taking a fresh chop out of the North. This drenched her over the bridge with flying spray which had left a coating of ice over all the bow area. I shivered to see her officers behind her windscreen on the bridge, bundled against the weather. When we were just abeam watching the turrets turn to track our path, a break in the overcast suddenly opened above them. A bright gleam like a stage spotlight swept across the sea lighting up the ship before passing south. The Destroyer's superstructure, ice covered, flashed a brilliant white, while previously unnoticed by us her Ensign was outlined bravely flapping at the truck.

"Did you see that, Bill?"

"Yeah, fantastic!"

"You're looking good, Temple Bar," I called.

"Thanks, Two-oh Cherry Tree, we enjoyed that."

Back in the comfort of the Ready Room we agreed that Hall had been somewhat avenged. I wrote my family saying "The Destroyer was operating alone in bitter winter weather close to the enemy's shore. Its sunlit flag seemed to flash like a beacon of hope in that dark and troubled land."

-Napier Wilson (Nautilus)