RECOLLECTION

Chester Hill 1988

“TRASH DISPOSAL”

When I reported aboard Swanson in early 1943 and was offered a limited choice of duty assignment I chose Assistant Communication Officer, because I liked the idea of working in radio and coding and the excitement of secrecy, knowledge of what was going on, plus the idea of spending a great deal of time on the bridge where the visual signaling was handled. It sounded like my cup of tea. However I was to learn later that there were other things involved; not only the mental pressures of decoding ancient and almost obsolete systems, such as the devilish "British Numbers”, but also the protection of the confidentiality of all the systems with we were entrusted. This was to become very clear to me in coming months.

We arrived in “The MED” in June 1943 and after seeing our huge convoy dispersed under local escorts to ports farther eastward entered the tight little harbor of Mers-el-Kabir, Algeria, just a couple of miles (through a tunnel under a promontory) west of the very lovely little city of Oran. Just a few kilometers westward was an absolutely delightful resort beach community named Ain- el- Turk, which a few of us did get to visit, but that’s another story.

We tied up bow on to the stone quary in Mers- el-Kabir, as did most other ships, including HMS KING GEORGE V, the Royal Navy’s latest and finest since PRINCE of WALES had been lost in the far East, and HMS HOOD to the BISMARK in the North Atlantic. Fairly close eastward from her was USS Ancon, moored port side to the same long stone quay. She we knew, as Flagship of the impending (secret) invasion of Sicily, had an incinerator! Such devices were absolutely necessary for the conversion of confidential or secret, but obsolete, materials, such as codes, etc., into windblown fine ash. The forces were gathering. It was time to prepare for the final preparatory movements.

An so, about 0945 that morning our little work party comprised of two of our radioman strikers and two signalman strikers, plus one petty officer and myself headed eastward down the quay toward the Ancon, all in our dirtiest filthiest dungarees and khakis, dragging four mail bags stuffed with confidential, but obsolete, material to be burned in accordance with regulations. Passing KING GEORGE V we all noticed that the Royal Navy was out swabbing and holystoning her teak decks in their dress blues. So nice to be USN, we all thought and remarked. And so, on up the long gangplank of Ancon.

“Request permission to come aboard, Sir, and to use your incinerator? I know right where it is.”

The immaculately spit and polish Officer of the Deck did return my casual salute, but not my friendly smile or pleasant nature of my request. He let me have it in language which I could not help but admire for its true saltiness, especially coming from one so young, even though he had a few birthdays on me. Translated into language which landsmen and other more cultured persons might understand, he made a very strong point of the fact that I and other unclean persons in my party should disappear from his polished and sparkling quarter deck post haste. He also expressed thoughts about my intelligence for not knowing that the General was coming for a visit, perhaps with a distinguished guest, and was already overdue.

As we made our hasty and unceremonial departure I asked him what General; he was talking about, and his answer was “GENERAL EISENHOUR!” And so, we headed back west dragging our mail bags and spirits, to give way in a hurry as we heard the escorting sirens and saw the starred flags on the bow fenders of the rapidly approaching procession. I got our little group out of the way, and we came to a hasty attitude of salute.

As they passed we could easily recognize Ike, and the person riding beside him turned toward the harbor as they passed the bow of HMS KING GEORGE V enough that we could make out the profile of none other than His Majesty King George VI.

While we had to make another trip to the incinerator later, we remembered that little aborted working party!