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- Subscribe - Contact Us - Rate Card - Place an Ad Valley&State Backpage O&E Sports Archives Classifieds Faith&Beliefs Obituaries Revels November 8, 2004 The long journey home By Kurt Hartmann Tidings Correspondent Editor's Note: Ashland Daily Tidings correspondent Kurt Hartmann died Oct. 22 at his home in Ashland after a brief illness. Hartmann's work has appeared frequently on this page, and this is the last chapter of his the final installment of his in the Tidings. Part III Semi-obedient son that I still was, ashore I stood in an endless line of other seamen - all waiting their turn to make a call to Mom and Dad. At 2 a.m. Albany, N.Y., time the unmistakably annoyed voice of my father was on the line-astonished (remember the year: 1945) that anyone would make a telephone call at such an hour. But my mother's joy overpowered his ire and when all was said and done, it quickly changed into a joyful welcome home-Until, that is, I regaled my father with the "once-in-a-lifetime to be paid not only a veritable fortune-certainly for those days-but to be awarded an advancement rank as well! How could he expect me to resist? But those were the times, certainly in the Hartmann household, when the words of parents-in this case, particularly of a Prussian father, were not to be taken lightly, and I shall always remember, vividly, his measured response to my enthusiasm. "That sounds very tempting, my son", he intoned over some six thousand miles of long distance wires, but that is not what you are going to do. What you are going to do is to come straight home, apply to a suitable college or university and get an education! "But Dad, I sputtered, "But Vati (in German the affectionate version of "Dad" --$500?" "Never mind the $500. With a college education you'll earn more than that annually compared to what you would be paid with only a high school diploma. And it was at this very juncture, that my mother's more gentle sound could be heard once more: "Your father is right, dear son-come home and go to school!" Which is what I did-but still - $500! Otherwise, only two distinct recollections of our brief visit to the Hawaiian wonderland have followed me into my so-called senior years: The first and certainly more pleasant was our breathless astonishment by my shipmates and myself as we sat in the unfamiliar environs of a Hawaiian restaurant: Waitresses, hat check girls and song and dance entertainers-each and every one- astonishing beauteous young women with seductively swaying hips and every other anatomical curve enticingly on display. But that was "in town," so to speak, that is Honolulu. The other memory dealt with a less pleasant and certainly more abrupt incident. As the youngest member of our ship's company my efforts to emulate my elders, including our captain, in letting facial hair grow-proved a humiliating failure. But in a "never say die" mindset, I substituted another hair adventure with the failed one-and within a few weeks during our long sea voyage I began to resemble a youthful Fletcher Christian (surely you do remember him? - the leader of the mutineers aboard H.M.S. Bounty in the 18th century). In short my hair now was long enough to pull back into what is generally described as a "pony tail." But ashore at Pearl Harbor, as I emerged from the postal unit where I had collected mail for my shipmates, my arms suddenly found themselves imprisoned by two steely hands. The belonged to two "shore patrolman" - the Navy's equivalent of military policemen-with not a word yet spoken, other, that is, than my yelp of shock and displeasure. Within seconds I found myself pitched into the rear seat of an official jeep-an incredulously hearing one of my captors announce: "See that barber pole on the right down the street? Well, we're going to dump you in there-and don't you dare come out without a regulation haircut!" There are times-and this clearly was one of them-when we are powerless, sometimes in the hands of fate and others in more identifiably in the hands of human authority figures. Surely this was such a time. So little more than 45 minutes later I climbed back aboard PC 1136-astonished-and even so slightly wounded as I gazed-sadly-into a mirror to mourn the disappearance of my curly locks. But those little insults to my dignity and individuality soon took a back seat as we were informed that ours was the sole vessel of our group in fit condition to continue the voyage, first to Astoria, Oregon at the mouth of the Columbia River and then, gently, eastward on that stream to Portland and the Kaiser Shipyards where we had an appointment for decommissioning. Now my fragile navigational skills were put to their ultimate trial-for no more crosschecking help could be expected an accompanying ship. But the gods smiled down at us, for at three in the morning a few days later we sighted a pilot vessel, anchored outside of Astoria. Within half an hour a civilian pilot was aboard-brown suit, brown fedora sporting a bold brown feather in its rim. Installed in our wheel house, he now became my commander-and under his practiced directions we were soon safely docked until the next morning, when once again "on our own", we slowly made our way upstream and several hours safely glided into the shipyard for an inventory of our equipment and subsequent retirement. In an unanticipated gesture of appreciation approached me as we shut down our engines-possibly for the final time-as the captain commended me on my service and announced that he would promote me one grade. But even a more relishing experience still lay ahead. Most of the crew-and certainly all of the Seabees left the ship-soon to be aboard troop trains headed for inland and Atlantic coast destination-and re-entry into civilian life. Such was not my immediate luck because, along with one officer-Ensign Goodloe, four or five of us were denied that immediate journey home because each of us was a specialist qualified in inventory and subsequently "mothball" various items; in my case, largely navigational gear and communications equipment. While not yet allowed to go home, the new temporary assignment contained an unintended but delightful blessing. In an unanticipated "snafu" - remember? "Situation Normal - All fouled up!" the Naval bookkeepers ashore neglected to reduce our ship's food allowance in keeping with the sharply reduced crew. As a result when one or two of us made our first journey to the nearby warehouse were naval rations were stored and distributed-we discovered that the records still allotted to PC 1136 sufficient rations for some 35 men rather than the five-person crew still actually aboard. Perhaps you can imagine some of the rest. Enormous containers of ice cream soon made their way to the ship's refrigerators - and not to forget enormous helpings of prime steak. The latter acquisition also pulled along with an unexpected bonanza for the civilian workers aboard our ship; for the rules prescribed that for every pound of steak requisitioned by a vessel it also had to accept an even more bountiful helping of a lower grade meat. Since meat rationing was in effect nationwide. Our tiny remaining ship's company instantly became the heroes of the shipyard workers to whom we bequeathed what they could only have purchased in meager quantities under normal circumstances. And now a final notation about the Long Journey's conclusion: When I departed the Philippine Island I tipped the scales at 135 pounds, virtually identical with my current weight. When we came to Portland my weight was 110 pounds. But all occasions and experiences, both hilarious and tragic, must come to an end, and within a few months I had returned to hearth and home - sans the $500 bonus I so wanted but enrolled in an elite college for women, Russell Sage, which, along with similar institutions, had opened their doors to returning servicemen - however for a single year only. Nevertheless, suddenly finding myself in the company of well-mannered and far from impoverished young women was no great burden. And as we ex-servicemen had missed to the company of attractive young damsels - so most of these young women seemed not oblivious - and certainly less than hostile to the returning young men. From there I migrated to Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio - and received a degree in government and history - appropriate preparation for a near lifetime as a reporter, editor and even publisher of my own newspaper. Yet - there still remained less than wholly resolved in my mind - to this day - what about the prospect of that $500 bonus? DailyTidings.com Home Page Valley&State | Backpage | O&E | Sports | Archives | Weather | Classifieds Columnists | Faith&Beliefs | Obituaries | Revels | Subscribe | Contact Us Copyright 2004 Ashland Daily Tidings and Ottaway Newspapers All Rights Reserved Slippers Isotoner Slippers Dsw Shoes Ciara Lyrics & Pictures libor rate Radiotelephone Communication Calenders 2005 Calender 2005 Calendar lil jon eastside boyz Citibank Student Loans Acs Loan Matchmaking & Dating Scripts Adventure Travel Conference Calls - $50/Month Security Systems The game rapper Click Here Site Search: .:Advertisements:. RESOURCES - Mail Tribune News - ODOT Road Cams