Home Sweet Home (September 1945)

I had spent some time getting my seabag supplied with just enough clothes to comply with the Navy uniform of the day requirements because I hope to retire this “monkey suit” in the near future.

The latter part of August was spent in endless mornings assemblies on the parade grinder at Farragut for muster and presentation of awards, but the afternoons were usually free. I made one liberty to Spokane - really, nothing there and it was a waste of time.

Finally, I got my leave orders and the clock started running on my thirty days plus eight days travel time on September 2nd (VJ-Day). I had to go back to Spokane, Washington from Farragut, Idaho to catch the Great Northern Railway to Chicago, Illinois. Going back to Spokane was the wrong direction to go home, but fortunately it was only a two hour bus ride.

At the train station in Spokane, I was able to purchase a ticket all the way home with only two train changes. The Great Northern would take me across Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota down to Chicago; then a change to the Missouri Pacific south to Little Rock, Arkansas and finally, the Rock Island (one day coach plus a mail/freight car - the “Doodle Bug” ) to Jonesboro, Louisiana (Home).

My 78-year old father met me at the train station and we walked the length of Main Street with him stopping in front of every store and announcing to clerks and customers alike, “you’ll come see - my baby is home.” In five minutes time I was reduced from a returning salty combat veteran to my father’s baby. Only today (at age 82-years) do I look back and realize how profound that was. I was the first and the youngest of four boys in the family to come home from the service. By the time we got to the west end of Main Street, to catch the Mill Bus home, everyone in town knew I was back.

It didn’t take me long to learn that Ona Vee was still in town - most of the girls her age had gone to the city - Shreveport or Monroe - to work, so I called her and made a date. We had known each other all our lives - she sat behind me in the first grade and we had dated occasionally over the years. On one of our earliest dates in grade school I pumped her to a birthday party on my bicycle.

I hadn’t been home very long before I decided I needed a little more time to cultivate my relationship with Onnie. My leave orders directed me to report back to the Navy Receiving Station in Seattle, Washington at the conclusion of my thirty day leave plus eight days travel time. So, I sent a telegram to the Seattle Receiving Station requesting a ten day extension. A few days later I got a telegram granting my request.

That forty days at home definitely set the tone for the rest of my life. By the end of my leave Onnie and I had made some firm plans for the future.

The government had announced a couple of programs for returning service personnel . One program provided for a government payment of $20 a week for 52 weeks as a transitional payment until the veteran found employment. It immediately got the name of “The 52/20 Club”. I wasn’t interested in that, but there was a program called the “G.I. Bill of Rights” that financed a college education and paid you $75 a month living expenses if you were single, $90 if you were married and $120 a month for a married couple with a child. Now, this was something I was interested in - it would fit very nicely into my plans for the future. All I have to do now is get out of this man’s Navy.

My leave time ended far too soon and it was time for me to start the journey to Seattle, Washington. So, on October 16th I boarded the afternoon train going north out of Jonesboro and essentially reversed my route home from Spokane, Washington, except on this trip I would end up in Seattle, Washington at the Navy Receiving Station.

On the trip west through North Dakota we ran into some heavy snow and pretty cold weather, but we would make it to Seattle on time.

I reported in at the Navy Receiving Station with barely five hours to spare - cutting it pretty close. I really had no duties except to check the “draft board” every day to see what they had planned for me next. I had enough “points” (Length of service plus overseas service.) to get out or they could discharge me based on my “minority enlistment” (Enlisted at 17-years of age with parental consent.) or worst nightmare, they could keep me until I was 21-years old under the terms of the “minority enlistment”. Surely the Navy wouldn’t do that - I think they will discharge me based on my “points” or convenience of the government. Whatever, lets get moving.

I had a brother stationed in Seattle as Flight Operation Officer assigned to the 13th Naval District, so I was able to spend some time with he and his wife at their home. Not bad duty, but I had other plans. I was advised that the Navy V-12 Program had been terminated and I would be placed in line for release from the Naval Service.

On November 17th I received orders to report to the Naval Training and Discharge Center, Shoemaker, California - about 700-miles south, just a short bus ride east of Oakland, California. I don’t know why the Navy couldn’t have let me stay home when I was on leave and just mail me a discharge - that would be too simple - we have to do it the Navy way.

It was cold and misting rain when I arrived at Shoemaker. This place must have been built in a lake they drained - there were elevated board walkways between buildings and the “head” was located in a separate building accommodating several 50-man barracks. Each barracks had an oil-burning furnace in the middle of the building - if your double deck bunk was close to the furnace you were uncomfortably hot and if it was very far away you had to sleep clothed to keep from freezing. It was a miserable place - a light, cold rain seemed to fall all the time. The idea was to get your name on a draft going to your home Naval District for separation from the service. Until your name appeared on a draft you were generally free to go on liberty into Oakland or San Francisco, but you needed to be back every morning to check the draft board.

We were well into December before my name appeared on a transportation draft to New Orleans. Once your name appears on a draft, there was no more leaving the base, you got up at 5:00 AM every morning for breakfast and reported to the “Draft Shed” at 7:00 AM with all your gear ready to travel. The “Draft Shed” was a large covered area with no sides, but a nice warm glassed-in office in the center manned by some very obnoxious Navy “lifers”. You stood or sat in a very crowded (Usually about 500 sailors with their seabags.) condition under the “Draft Shed” and froze while you waited for your draft number to be called over the public address system. If you were lucky, and your draft number was called, you boarded a waiting bus to start your journey - you waited until about noon and if your number wasn’t called, you were released until the next morning when the protocol was repeated.

This went on for about ten days - I’m not going to leave the Navy with happy memories. But, finally, that day came when they called my draft number and I boarded that nice warm bus and headed for the train station.

Our train was a troop train that surely saw its glory days during World War One. There was a mail car with sliding side doors that had been hastily converted to a rolling galley. At meal time the occupants of one passenger car at a time was allowed to go back to the galley car and get their meal and bring it back to their seat to eat. A receptacle was positioned at the end of each passenger car to collect anything that was left over plus the disposable serving box.

We traveled south to Los Angeles and then on the Southern Pacific tracks to New Orleans. Apparently the train had the lowest priority, because it seemed to sit on a side track about half the time. But, the weather was warmer and we were going home.

After six days on this torture train we arrived in New Orleans on the day after Christmas and went through another physical and some lectures on benefits. Finally, I got my discharge on December 28th and caught a bus for the 250-mile ride to the north central part of the state and home. Now, to begin the remainder of my life.

Louisiana Tech was on a trimester schedule and a new session would begin in April. If I could get all the paperwork done that was required by the Veterans Administration G.I. Bill I would enter their School of Engineering.
(Written by: Wilbur V. Rogers)