Displaced

The S.S. Wilhelm Gustloff 

Far from Berlin and the Allied bombings, the people of East Prussia were isolated
and insulated for much of WWII. Their farms and cities were nestled near clear,
deep lakes and rivers. Surrounded by fairytale forests, living in the country's
breadbasket, they had access to better food than the rest of Germany.

Until the winter of 1945.

The Long Arms of Revenge 

In January of that year, the Russian army advanced across the border and into East
Prussia. Stalin ordered his soldiers to kill and rape with abandon, giving them his
permission to take revenge for earlier German atrocities in Russia. The old men,
women, and children of East Prussia tried to outrun the Russians. Many waited too
long, afraid Hitler would make good his threat to execute anyone who abandoned
their homes and fled.

Those left behind to face the Russians were subjected to the most barbaric treatment
imaginable. Women and girls were gang-raped, nailed to barn doors, and used as
target practice. Russian tanks crushed the people as they tried to escape across
snow-covered fields. Overhead, Russian aircraft shot at the refugees as they tried to
cross frozen stretches of water. Thousands, including horses, drowned.

Final Voyage   

Along the escape route to the Baltic Sea many more died of exposure and starvation.
Those who pressed on clung to the rumor that a ship was waiting at a port city to
take them to all to safety in the west of the country. The ship was a former recreational
liner called the S.S. Wilhlem Gustloff. The decorated Nazi U-boat commander, Admiral
Karl Donitz, was organizing the evacuation.

More than 10,000 German refugees converged at the port. Rushing the pier, they all
fought for a place aboard the ship. Desperate mothers flung their children into the  
arms of strangers to get them to safety. Once aboard the ship, thousands of women
and children crammed themselves shoulder to shoulder in the cavernous arms of the
ship's drained swimming pool. The stench of sea sickness combined with dirty bodies
was overpowering. Yet once at sea, the people were grateful to be speeding away
from the clutches of the Red Army.

Their freedom, however, was short-lived.

A patrolling Soviet submarine spotted the ship and delivered three torpedoes. Written
on the first torpedo were the words, For the Motherland. On the second torpedo were
the words, For the Soviet People. The third torpedo carried the message, For 
Stalingrad. A fourth torpedo, which got jammed, carried the words, For Stalin. 

Forty minutes later, the ship sank, killing 9, 343 people. It is considered the greatest
maritime disaster in history.

By comparison, 1, 517 perished in the sinking of the Titanic.

For more information on the Russian invasion of East Prussia and the sinking of the 
S.S. Wilhelm Gustloff there is an excellent three-part program on You Tube. Here is 
the link to the first episode  --
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bIaLZdXJiNY

Jive Talkin'

Some people insist Cab Calloway was the first rapper and the man who originated backsliding dance moves, long before Michael Jackson started Moonwalking. For those growing up in the 1930s and 1940s, Calloway personified cool. His musical talents, accompanied by his Cotton Club vernacular -- the scat and jive of Harlem -- made him and his orchestra hugely popular with white and black audiences. Calloway even penned the Bible of Jive, his own Hepster's Dictionary, which enjoyed many printings and revisions.

As Calloway himself explained.. . .

"...I compiled the first glossary of words, expressions, and the general patois employed by musicians and entertainers in New York’s teeming Harlem. That the general public agreed with me is amply evidenced by the fact that the present issue is the sixth edition since 1938 and is the official jive language reference book of the New York Public Library."

Don't look for a Rosetta Stone DVD dedicated to Harlem Jive or expect your local community college to offer a class. But if you look in the dark recesses of the Internet, you may be able to "collar" a copy of this classic so other hep cats don't think you're "icky." Or treat yourself to this clip from Stormy Weather  and listen to the original hepcat perform "Jumpin' Jive." (Click on the white arrow below) 

► 4:48► 4:48

www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8yGGtVKrD8

Dead Ends

Early on in my research into my father's military history and the events in my novel I discovered discrepancies. For years I tried to locate information on a troop ship that was sunk in the North Atlantic with much loss of life. My father was witness to that tragedy.


Eventually, I discovered why it was so hard to validate his story:

The records of ships used to carry troops to their theaters of operations were destroyed intentionally in 1951. "According to our [U. S. National Archives] records, in 1951 the Department of the Army destroyed all passenger lists, manifests, logs of vessels, and troop movement files of United States Army Transports for World War II." (Sorry, but there was no word on why the records were destroyed.) Thus there is no longer an official record of who sailed on what ship, though there are still valuable sources that can be found.....Wesley Johnston


Source and additional information: WW2troopships.com and WWIItroopships.com 

The 238

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Close to 900 British, Canadian, and American men lost their lives in and around Iceland during WWII. This number represents those whose bodies were retrieved for burial and those who lost their lives in aircrafts that went missing. It does not include the hundreds more who were lost on sinking ships in the North Atlantic near Iceland. It also excludes the 150 Icelandic citizens, mostly fishermen and merchant seamen, who were victims of that war.

Of that number, 238 Americans were laid to rest in Iceland's Fossvogur cemetery, overlooking Camp Kwitcherbelliakin. After the war, their bodies were exhumed and brought home. 


If you go down to the shore in Reykjavik where Camp Kwitcherbelliakin once stood, you can still see ruts in the dirt marking the placement of the Quonset huts. Occasionally, a spent shell will work its way up through the mud and rock. Little else remains of America's time in Iceland. 


But the collective sacrifice of the Allies is still visible in the cemetery above the camp. When I was there I saw the graves of some of the boys who never made it home after the war. British boys, mostly, clumped together under the low branches of tall evergreen trees. 


In a separate part of the cemetery there also lie 17 German boys. 


In terms of numbers, the loss of American life in and around Iceland during the war pales to the number lost in the Pacific and Europe. Yet their sacrifice was just as great. 


On October 8, 2004, the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company of Massachusetts chose to return to Iceland to honor the Americans who fought and died there. In a ceremony attended by the President of Iceland, Olafur Ragnar Grimsson, and ambassadors from several nations, the Ancients, as they are called,  placed a monument to the fallen Americans in the cemetery overlooking the abandoned camp. 


The words on the monument read, "To all Americans who served in Iceland during World War Two. They gave their today for our tomorrow." 

The Whales of Valley Forge

Hvalfjordur 

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In late 1942, my father's convoy arrived in Iceland and headed for the safety of Hvalfjordur (Whale Bay), a long, deep fjord surrounded by 1,000 foot cliffs. The inlet provided visual cover for the convoy's ships and some protection from the driving Icelandic wind and North Atlantic storms. By laying submarine nets in the bay, the Navy was able to keep U-boats from entering. Sadly, the nets and ships also effectively 
evicted the bay's resident namesakes, the whales. 

Sailors stationed onboard ships anchored in the fjord took liberty ferries to Reykjavik when granted leave. Navy men like my father, who would be based in Iceland, eventually moved from the ships to a Quonset hut community situated near the base air strip. The men dubbed their new home, Camp Kwitcherbelliakin. 

In 2005, I took my first trip to Iceland. While there, I met with an Icelandic historian, Ragnar, who drove me from Reykjavik to Whale Bay. Walking to the shore, Ragnar guided me past hidden pots of bubbling earth that smelled of sulfur. Along the way, he pointed out turquoise green thermal swimming holes where locals went skinny dipping year round. Atop a mound of earth, covered in long grass, we found the remains of an Allied munitions bunker. Steps away, tart wild berries and deep blue Icelandic wild flowers grew in the rocky soil.

In silence, we stood there for several minutes, looking out into the windswept bay. I tried to imagine the tranquil fjord full of steel ships and war-weary young men. 

"They called it Valley Forge when your father was here,” said Ragnar. "They could not pronounce the Icelandic name."

I smiled, thinking it a fitting name for the place that once harbored so many Americans. 

“Over there," he continued, pointing to a small cove, "that is where your father's ship was moored while it was here." 

A lump rose in my throat as I brushed away an unexpected tear. Thanked Ragnar for bringing me there. 
                                                                                                                
Politely, he nodded. "You know, they say the whales have started to return." 

Eyes of the Fleet

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When my father died, in 1999, I was left with a cardboard box 
of old photographs and a mound of unanswered questions. Both 
soon became the impetus for my novel.


In an attempt to better understand the contents of that box and 
the man who held on to it for over 50 years, I applied for my 
father's military records. Over the course of six years, I spoke 
with a number of government archivists, veterans, and military 
historians. I also spent indeterminable hours in libraries, 
bookstores, and on the internet.


I loved every minute of it.


My journey has taken me to Iceland twice and many places in 
between. I have made dear friends in the process. Lost several. 
Their stories have moved me to tears. Made me laugh. Filled me 
with admiration. I will never forget any of them.


The emotional and material fallout from all that research is 
considerable. Like my father with his box of photos,  I can't 
bring myself to part with any of it. 


So, Dad, this blog is for you. 


Fred Melull, my father, was born in 1914 to Prussian and 
Hungarian immigrants. An only child, he grew up in Rye and 
Port Chester, New York. Spent his summers sailing on Long 
Island Sound.


When WWII broke out, Dad got an automatic draft deferral 
because the kind of work he was doing was important to the 
war effort. I never got all the details. All I know is that he 
eventually quit his job, despite the deferral, and enlisted in 
the Navy. His civilian work experience allowed him to enter 
the Navy as a photographer, or Photomate. At the time, he 
was 27. Scrappy, not scrawny. That's him in the above 
photo, third from the left. Along with thousands like him, he 
helped form what the Navy called, "The Eyes of the Fleet."


In the fall of 1942, Dad shipped out of Boston onboard an 
AR5 repair ship called Vulcan, bound for Iceland. In convoy, 
the ship sailed across the North Atlantic for several weeks, 
dodging Nazi U-boats along the way. Once he was stationed in 
Iceland, Dad logged long flight hours over land and sea, mostly 
in Navy seaplanes called PBYs. 


From that vantage point, he photographed events that haunted 
him the rest of his life.